


I Have Seen Your Heart

by Arliene



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, HP: EWE, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Possessive Behavior, PostWar, Psychological Trauma, Suspense, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arliene/pseuds/Arliene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The arrival of his nemesis is the least of Harry Potter's problems. Now that the war is over, he finds himself drifting away from all that held him together in the past, trying to find a new purpose in his life. Being framed for murder forces Harry to be on the run and this time the only company he takes with him is Tom Riddle. The young Dark Lord faces a future he did not expect, meets an oddity who killed everything he strived to be. And yet he finds himself obsessed with his murderer, a determined man searching for answers and reaching for the sky once more. Harry Potter's purpose and Tom Riddle's destiny, seemingly entwined. They say change is overrated. But choice is everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infiltration

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tomarry BigBang 2016. This story will have a sequel.
> 
> I would like to thank [**Marvuolo**](http://marvuolo.tumblr.com/post/149120667031/tomarry-big-bang-2016-cover-art-for-the) and [ **pOnnu**](http://ponnukakku.deviantart.com/art/Tomarry-Big-Bang-2016-629255182) for their wonderful fanart.

  
  


 

"Maybe you shouldn't apply for Auror training."

Her words were final.

Hermione's stare didn't waver and there was a steady, relentless confidence in her gaze that he found oddly soothing.

She could do that. With a few words Hermione would pull him out of his self-induced pity party, and Harry could think it all over. But that didn't mean his problems vanished at once, although he knew she meant well.

His headache came back just as swiftly, digging at his mental composure with the uncanny force of a sledgehammer. But nowadays, that was his life. An endless endurance test.

Sighing, Harry tried to think. Just think.

He had no clue how people decided what to do with their lives after finishing school or how easily they could stick by it. Everyone around him seemed to know everything and perhaps that was the tragedy of it all. Not knowing what to do after having been told what to do all his life. As usual, he was an exception to the rules.

Sipping his tea, Harry stared at the letter in his hand, anxiety muddling his thoughts. Hermione was saying something else, probably something extremely important, but his awareness flickered like a dying flame these days, especially today.

No surprise there, as he was simply too overwhelmed with his NEWTs results.

O's and E's littered the parchment and Harry's eyes were practically glued to that tiny, little O right next to the word Potions. If Snape were still alive, that alone would've been enough to give him a heart attack.

It was great, though. His work bore results, a reward for the agony he put himself through.

Harry's 8th year had been filled with so much studying that he finally felt like he'd achieved something on his own. But now that achievement weighed tons and it didn't help that Hermione already knew what she wanted to do. Hermione and Ginny and Neville and Parvati and Dean and...

"Harry?"

Months after killing Voldemort, it seemed that no matter what Harry envisioned for his future, _that man_ would always be the pinnacle of his existence. And it was just sad.

"Harry?" she called again, tilting her head to the side.

Startled, he gave her a small smile and put the letter down.

"It's alright. I'm just confused right now." Harry didn't need her worry on top of his own. "It's all a bit of mess, to be honest.”

"Really?" she asked dryly. Hermione, having known him for so long, was no fool. His attempts to distract her rarely worked. And that was rather annoying.

She crossed her arms, completely unimpressed, and he was tempted to sigh again.

The clock above the mantelpiece chimed and Kreacher appeared, serving more tea for them.

Grimmauld Place still depressed most people, which is why Harry rarely got visitors these days. But the environment suited his mood perfectly.

"You know, with your grades you could basically do everything," Hermione began, not relenting.

It was true, of course. But Harry doubted his grades would matter. Even if he received Trolls, most people would have hired him on his name alone.

"And you can't?" he teased, looking pointedly at her letter. His friend blushed, but the glimmer of pride in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Of course, but I mean you could try out a few things. And if you don't like it, you can always do something else. It's not like you have to decide now what to do for the rest of your life." Reaching for another biscuit, Hermione continued. "Most people our age try a few things, before making a final decision. I strongly suspect that even Ron won't be an Auror forever."

Ah yes, _Ron_. Harry examined her frown, reminding himself that she hadn't been pleased with Ron's career choice, if her drawn eyebrows were an indication. In fact, he could tell that Hermione would like nothing more than for Ron to quit.

Having a boyfriend who risked his life on a daily basis didn't sound like much fun and Harry understood her frustration, her fears. This is how Ginny must have felt like during the war. Not that it mattered anymore, Harry thought with a twinge of frustration. Besides, Ron had started a year earlier, opting to use his war hero status instead of going back to school. It suited him well.

The redhead was happy with Auror training, going through the academy with the ease of someone destined to fight.

Perhaps Hermione was right, though. Perhaps he wouldn't do it forever. But it would take a hell of a lot of time for Ron to find something else that made him just as happy. And that's why she wouldn't interfere.

“Being an Auror,” his friend murmured, fidgeting slightly, “It's a commitment for life.”

"I know." Harry sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. "But Ron's fine and you will start law school next week. And Neville will go back to teach and Ginny is training with the Harpies. Honestly Hermione, what am I supposed to do?"

Distracted from her worries about Ron, the witch simply stared at him.

"You're not supposed to do anything. You just do what makes you happy. It's not something others can expect of you."

Harry wanted to laugh. "Pray tell, what makes me happy?” He held up his hand, stalling her. "Killing Dark Lords? Playing Quidditch? It's the only two things I'm good at."

“You know that's not true.” Hermione scoffed, looking at him as if she thought he'd said something particularly stupid.

But he didn't care. Bitterness gnawed at his insides, spreading like an illness that couldn't be cured.

This influence, this self-loathing tainted his every decision, even now. Harry bit his lips. He was only good at DADA because he'd been forced to be good at it. Otherwise, being average would've meant certain death. And Quidditch? Just the thought of more groupies following him around made him shudder with revulsion.

Besides, good marks at school didn't really indicate talent or even passion. And that's what he apparently lacked.

His best friend shook her head, brown curls flying everywhere.

"Being good at something and doing something because it makes you happy are two different things. You know that," she said, eyes hard.

Yes, he kind of did. But it didn't help.

Hermione turned her head, looking outside the kitchen for a moment. The charmed windows didn't let much light in and it was getting rather late. They'd been sitting here for hours, after getting their results, throwing suggestions back and forth.

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table, and Harry steeled himself for another round of Hermione's wisdom.

"I'm good a Potions,” she began. “It doesn't mean I would want to spend the rest of my life bent over a cauldron, inhaling poisonous fumes.”

"I get your point,” he said. “But it doesn't change my situation. I just don't know…"

Silence fell between them, and Harry didn't want to look up, didn't want to see the pity in her expression. He just didn't know what made him happy. He'd never attempted to discover it, twisted as his mind was these days.

Hermione sighed, picking up her results and pocketing the letter. She stood, leaving her seat to close the distance between them. Giving Harry a one-armed hug, Hermione smiled at him, the message clear. She'd always be there for him, no matter what.

"You'll find something. Even if we have to make a list of all the career options that exist in the wizarding world."

“Right.” Harry chuckled, letting go of her. Warmth spread through his bones and Harry smiled in return, the motion easier than it had been in months. A life without his friends by his side would've been unbearable.

Trust her to do a proper research, though. No doubt, he would be presented with a truckload of parchment soon, listing everything he could do.

"I have to go." Glancing at her watch, Hermione straightened. "Entrance exams at 8 tomorrow. I'll see you next week."

"Good luck." Harry waved her off and with a last indecipherable look she left the kitchen. Harry stared at his rapidly cooling cup of tea and his letter and knew that he would have to make a decision soon if he didn't want to spend the rest of his life alone at Grimmauld Place, miserable and in the company of an equally miserable Walburga Black.

And Kreacher, of course.

 

* * *

 

Meeting Draco Malfoy at Flourish & Blotts the next day didn't exactly improve his mood, but it changed his boring routine at least. The blonde was shopping all by himself, ignoring the blatant stares, the whispering. The hatred.

He walked with his head held high and it startled Harry so much that he couldn't help it. He stared.

Gone was the pallor and defeated posture that had characterized the young wizard after his trial. Instead, Malfoy had picked himself up, finished his community service and attended Hogwarts with Harry for their 8th year, getting his NEWTs.

It was admirable. From hitting the lowest point in your life to this? Harry could find it in himself to respect Malfoy for that.

Shaking his head, Harry forced himself to concentrate on the book he'd picked up from the shelf. He had no time to waste, especially not on people like Draco Malfoy; changed or not.

The book cover was unremarkable.

 _Blood Wards, Security and Defense_.

He needed his own books at home for cross-referencing, but this particular one contained updated spells on warding that would help Harry in the long run.

Grimmauld Place didn't have stable wards anymore, not since Dumbledore and Sirius had died. And oddly enough, that thought wasn't accompanied by the usual pain. Instead, numbness spread over him, diluting the memories enough for Harry to carry on, to remind himself that nothing could be changed about that.

Clutching the book in his hands, Harry focused.

Warding took up most of his time and concentration. He would need to work on those wards in order to keep the house protected.

With a final glance at the index, he closed the cover and put the book on top of the pile he was already carrying with him. Heading for the counter, Harry tried to ignore the silence, uncomfortably aware that other customers must have noticed his presence, now that he wasn't actively hiding behind bookshelves. The clerk clearly did, gaping at the Boy Who Lived. The man hadn't even noticed Harry's arrival at first, too busy keeping an eye on customers like Malfoy.

"I would like to buy these," Harry said, waiting patiently for the man to regain his wits.

Eyes trailed upward, briefly glancing at his forehead, before the clerk muttered something, reaching for the books.

"Mr. Potter. Please, you don't need to pay for-,"  
Harry sighed.

"No." He hated going to Diagon Alley these days, receiving this special treatment, which was even worse than before. After killing Voldemort, people apparently thought he was the second coming of Merlin or something.

Throwing a few Galleons on the desk, he packed away his purchase, ignoring the man's spluttering. He'd probably given him more Galleons than necessary. Oh, well.

"Have a nice day." And with that Harry left, already fed up.

Malfoy was standing near the entrance, watching him intently, but his expression remained closed off, every bit as pure-blooded as one would imagine. Harry nodded at him and Malfoy greeted him in return and that was that. This forced politeness marked their changed relationship, but Harry knew that actually talking to Malfoy would exhaust him too much.

Stepping outside, Harry inhaled the fresh air, rainfall having washed away the stench of summer heat. The new term would start in a couple of months and with a slight feeling of loss, Harry remembered that this year he would no longer attend Hogwarts, would never ride the Hogwarts express as a student.

It was his first year of utter freedom, but somehow it tasted bitter. It tasted like loss.

 

* * *

 

It tasted like eternity. Tom Riddle stared at the vacant expression of Hepzibah Smith.

Blood rushed through his veins in anticipation, his life force a single source of heady euphoria. He felt himself slipping.

Debasing himself to this point had been worth it, though. Holding the cup and the locket in his hands he gazed at what soon would turn out to be another step towards immortality.

He was already immortal. Had defeated death twice, but twice would never be enough. Flimsy protections like that could be invoked by anyone and he didn't abide by any rules.

The faint sunlight hit gleaming metal and his eyes reflected on the surface. Tom breathed out, lips parting slightly. He needed to ground himself, find that place inside his mind that pushed away the triumph and greed and hunger and the constant call for more.

It worked well enough. As usual, his Occlumency barriers rushed forward with frightening ease, fortifying existing barriers against the onslaught of unnecessary emotions. And with nothing but a small smile, he pocketed the objects, making sure that nothing inside the house would hint at his involvement in Smith's death.

He stared at her corpse for a moment, disgust clawing at his senses. Kissing her hand had nearly made him throw up.

In fact, Smith was just another proof at how revolting most humans seemed to be; their vapid, feeble minds incapable of forming coherent thoughts, too desperate, holding onto people or wealth as if that would somehow make their lives more meaningful. They were people who preached about friendship and love or dreamed of riches that only distracted them from the very reality of their lives. Their inevitable end. Bones and dust. Maggots eating at their rotting flesh. That's what would happen.

Humanity was the worst.

Tom turned away, heading for the door. He did not want to think about it anymore. Turning his back on the house, he focused instead on what lay in front him. A better future.

Walking swiftly across the meadow, he directed his steps to the forest, knowing that he would need to walk for a bit before he could attempt to Apparate away. Aurors these days tended to search every corner for evidence and he'd rather not leave behind any magical trace near Smith's house.

The cold turned sharp and cloying and his breath evaporated in the air. Mist hung above the ground and Tom adjusted his robe, avoiding leaving imprints.

He liked moments like this. Moments when nothing interrupted his thoughts and the only witness to his actions was the fading sunlight, the glittering stars that would slowly but surely cover the sky, chasing exhausting days away. Back at school, Tom had enjoyed walking the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest and that hadn't changed in the slightest.

Still, wearing a mask tended to irritate him, even if it was more bearable around his followers. With no Dumbledore and no other teacher in sight, Tom could bask in utter freedom in a way that made him think of all the possibilities, all the dreams he could now taste on his lips. Working at Borgin and Burkes was also a thing of the past, now that he'd killed Smith.

He could disappear.

His lips twitched and he could already feel his composure dissolving at the idea of leaving Britain behind for good, exploring new areas of magic in safety of the Dark, away from home. Not just the weekly travels he'd done in the past, but years of exploration that would inevitably turn him into the most powerful wizard alive.

Tomorrow, he would be gone. And with that delightful outlook, Tom reached his destination, swiftly Disapparting.

 

* * *

 

The morning came just as fast, and Tom woke, blinking at the conjured light hanging above his head.

He turned around, sitting up slowly and adjusting his sleeping attire. Sleep was another one of those necessities that irked him to no end, but some limitations couldn't be broken yet and Tom would have to continue on as usual. A look outside showed that it was still relatively dark and he knew he had about two hours left before the Portkey would take him to Albania.

So with newfound determination, he began to dress himself, wandlessly fixing everything that needed to be fixed. Time passed quickly, too quickly for his taste. Packing the last items away, Tom checked the house, aware that it would take years before he returned to Little Hangleton.

A small part inside him whispered of a different future, one where he could abandon this place altogether, sever all ties to his Muggle father and the past that came with it. Common sense dictated that he should just burn the house down and be done with it.

Tom's fingers clenched around the material of his travelling cloak.

Burn it down.

Yes, perhaps one day he would.

But for now, patience yielded better results.

Crossing the threshold to the living room, he frowned in thought, trying to ignore the small pile of gifts his followers have sent him today. They often tended to do that, hoping against hope that he would notice their pathetic attempts to ingratiate themselves with him, hoping that he would bestow them with his attention. The pile was carefully stacked near the fireplace, books and other items having appeared out of thin air. Tom usually allowed it, if only to see what kind of riches and family heirlooms his followers would give up for him.

But today he had different plans and indulgence demanded a price he couldn't pay.

And then he saw another unpleasant item, lying innocently on the coffee table.

Most of his followers knew that sending letters, if they didn't contain useful information, equaled pain.

They should know he hated wasting time on trivial information, especially in the morning.  
But of course, Abraxas Malfoy overstepped his boundaries, as usual.

There was a letter which at some point must have been deposited by that house-elf he'd acquired from Malfoy. Speaking of Malfoy, the letter bore his seal. Summoning the parchment, he held it up, lips thinning in displeasure.

 _My Lord,_  
_the gift I have sent you has been part of the family collection for centuries._ _I fervently hope you find it as useful as legends claim it is._  
_We never managed to figure out how to make it work._  
_Regards,_  
_Abraxas Malfoy_

Raising an eyebrow, Tom stared at the carefully written words, detecting no particular motive other than the usual. Abraxas had been rather vague, though.

Glancing sideways, he inspected the pile, annoyed that he was once again wasting precious time just to deal with the antics of his followers.

He quickly made out the small package bearing the Malfoy crest and Tom sighed, drawing his wand. A spell later and the summoned item hovered near his hand while he used complex detection charms to see whether it was in any way cursed. He was no fool and follower or not, Abraxas didn't deserve any consideration.

Nothing showed, but if anything, that made him more suspicious. Narrowing his eyes, he lowered his bag, opting to unwrap the gift.

His magic worked in precise motions and it revealed a small box, black, except for an inscription in grey, fading letters. Odd.

Tom's pulse quickened and his reaction puzzled him even more.

 _The Soul_. That was all it said.

So Abraxas wasn't as useless in giving gifts, as he thought. Tom hadn't bothered to tell his followers anything about soul magic or his interests in Horcruxes, but that didn't mean that some of them remained ignorant, pets that they were, though.

Raising his head, he cast Tempus and noticed he had about half an hour left, before he needed to leave. Deciding at once, Tom reached for the top lid, slowly lifting it to see inside.

A necklace. Nothing more.

The resemblance was uncanny, although he didn't think it was the real thing.

The pendant looked awfully like one of the time turners from the ministry, but attached to it was a small orb, kind of like a miniature crystal ball with swirling shadows inside it that reminded him of Divination lessons. The same inscription covered its surface.

Apparently, the object carried a legend that no Malfoy managed to solve and that's another reason the blonde must have decided to give it to him; flattering Tom while sating his own curiosity.  
Well, well, well.

Later, in the safety of his new hideout, he would have the time to solve this mystery, so he didn't hesitate. Closing the lid, Tom pocketed the item, certain that he would need to study the material of the pendant before even attempting to touch it. Curses weren't the only thing that could be deadly.

Evidently, so was lack of attention.

Suddenly the room began to glow and light emanated from where he'd stored the gift. Tom had no time to panic, no time to react properly before everything turned white, a blinding energy that coalesced around him, taking him away without warning.

 

* * *

 

More than a year had passed since graduating and Harry hadn't experienced the same revelation that everyone else around him had experienced. Hermione's pitying stares didn't help either.

Asking Neville why he'd chosen a career as a teacher only got him responses like “I enjoy teaching.” Or Ginny's “I love Quidditch.”

Love. What did Harry love? Maybe there was some kind of manual for that and he'd just missed out.

Dumbledore had once called Harry's ability to love one of his greatest assets. And maybe it was true in terms of loving people, making friends and all that.

But to truly love doing something, something that satisfied you? Well, nothing had changed. He still didn't know.

Perhaps the only thing that Harry indulged in nowadays was reading, although Ron's horrifying reaction to Harry's new hobby plus his girlfriend's approval just made it all the more entertaining.

He'd learned a lot about warding, though. A lot that hadn't ever been taught at Hogwarts, such as gaining the abilities to protect not just houses or objects from prying eyes, but to make it possible to tie said objects to him, keeping them obscured under a veil of secrecy.

True, he didn't exactly love practicing that kind of magic. He didn't love warding, per se. Most of the stuff bordered on Dark Arts, but Harry didn't have the patience to argue against it anymore. Not since warding had helped him keep his privacy.

Sadly enough, he couldn't hide away from the world either and that's why he did help out from time to time, when the ministry demanded it.

Today was one of those days. Shortly before Christmas, Harry was called to the Minister's office.

Seeing Kingsley again, didn't come as a surprise, since Harry was often asked for his opinion regarding public matters of interest, but the last time he saw him, the Minister hadn't seem nearly as frazzled and disturbed as he was today.

Portraits of former Ministers peered down at them and Harry was strangely reminded of Hogwarts.

“I'm sorry I had to call you again, Harry,” Kingsley began, putting the book he'd been consulting away.

Everything around this place looked meticulous, from the neatly arranged bookcases to the thick folders lining the shelves near the window. Charmed light brightened the office, giving the illusion of warmth and comfort, something the ministry desperately lacked. Minister Shacklebolt made a habit out of collecting old Muggle records from famous musicians, keeping them on display in a glass cabinet. The purebloods visiting him must've had a blast, being reminded how much had changed since the war.

"I thought it was best to let you in on a few issues we've had recently," he continued, returning to his seat.

"It's fine," Harry replied. "I'm not exactly busy." And that was an understatement, if there ever was one.

Predictably, Kingsley glanced up at him, not even bothering to hide his concern, but in Harry's opinion there was nothing to be concerned about. It was his business and he would deal with it.

"I heard you rejected the offer," the Minister said, leaning forward. "My colleagues over at the DMLE were quite disappointed, I must say."

Imagine that.

Harry nodded grimly, secretly pleased. Just the thought of wearing the scarlet robes and chasing Dark wizards across the streets made his stomach turn. He had enough of this. Why wouldn't people let this go?

"Yeah. Ron wasn't happy," Harry offered quickly, not inclined to delve into this further. Ron had looked gutted, when Harry told him the news that he wouldn't be joining the Aurors. But it couldn't be helped. His decision was final. Not even Kingsley's pointed remarks would sway him.

Shacklebolt leaned his elbows against the armrests, inspecting him further. "We have a few internships at other departments left. I'm sure they would be happy to welcome you."

'For all the wrong reasons', Harry thought darkly. If Kingsley had just called him to play job advisor, Harry was slowly but surely losing his patience. Everyone either wanted to mess with him, and when he tried to explain that he didn't know what to do, they just waved him off, or shrugged awkwardly, as if life was so easy.

"I appreciate that you want to help, sir," Harry voiced eventually, trying to break the silence which had suddenly wormed its way into the conversation. "I really do. But we should perhaps focus on what's going on at the ministry."

Kingsley's lips formed a thin line and Harry could imagine the man would pursue this topic anyway. If not today, then at the next meeting and so on.

Perhaps Harry was being ungrateful right now. Hell, he definitely was. But sometimes it was just too exhausting to care about everyone's feelings.

"Very well, then," the man said. His look told Harry everything. "In any case, what I'm about to discuss with you, should not be discussed lightly outside this office."

Harry nodded and Kingsley stared at something behind Harry's shoulder, perhaps making sure that the silencing charms still remained intact.

"It concerns the Wizengamot and the recent changes I've tried to implement."

Curious now, Harry leaned forward.

Changes? He hadn't known much about that. The Minister slouched forward, appearing tired. Whatever it was, it seemed both time-consuming and unhealthy, since Kingsley had never looked anything less than a formidable warrior.

"Changes, sir?" Harry asked carefully.

"Indeed." The man sighed. "I've replaced several key figures of the Wizengamot with new lawyers, Muggleborn lawyers to be precise."

Oh.

"The others weren't happy about that," Harry concluded and the Minister nodded, his expression serious. "Voldemort's short regime and control of the Wizengamot managed to instill even more prejudice against Muggleborns, and many members thrived off his propaganda, Harry."

Kingsley's eyes shone, a sadness weighing him down, which made his composure slip. Harry couldn't imagine how difficult it must be to fight against these people, who, by all accounts, have been members of the Wizengamot since before Kingsley and Harry were born.

They must think his authority as Minister didn't count nearly as much.

"They filled their pockets with money, while taking on cases against people with the slightest bit of Muggle background. Now that you won, that money flow stopped abruptly and we managed to persecute several purebloods of their crimes. But not all of them."

"They didn't bribe the ministry like Malfoy did, did they?" Harry asked, alarmed. Surely, Kingsley wouldn't allow it.

The man grimaced in distaste.

"Of course not. I rooted it all out last year, but my predecessors didn't seem inclined to do anything, which is why there are still ancient laws protecting these people from being persecuted. It would take years to change the legal system."

Swallowing the sudden pressure in his throat, Harry tried to focus. They didn't have years. For all the sacrifices he made, Kingsley Shacklebolt could stop being Minister next year, if the pressure against him demanded it. And then what?

"What should we do then?" he couldn't help asking.

What should he do? He tried to think of a solution but came up with nothing.

But the Minister did, if his benign expression was anything to go by.

"As you know, we don't have a parliamentary system. Not like the Muggle world," Kingsley explained stoically. "The public can't voice its opinion in a way that is legally binding and they can't vote for new members. It's what I want to change."

Okay.

Harry gaped at him. There was no other way to react to that.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister since 1998, over two years in office, had just proposed to overthrow the entire British wizarding system, disregarding centuries of laws and traditions in favor of a new world.

A much better world, Harry thought, reeling. It was true. They didn't have parties and the public almost had zero influence over who governed their country. It's what Harry always wondered about, especially since his trial in 5th year.

"I know what you're thinking." Kingsley chuckled, amused. "It's the kind of proposal Albus Dumbledore would've given me a pat on the back for, basically saying 'dream, on'."

"He wouldn't say that." Harry could imagine it, though.

"Still," the man said, sobering. "We don't have that much time to work behind the scenes and I know that you're thinking about your own direction in life."

"I'm not going to become a politician." The words flew out of his mouth and even the thought of becoming one was hilarious. He'd just turned 20 this year and no one would take him seriously. Boy Who Lived or not.

Kingsley shook his head. "It's not what I want you to do. Only you can decide that. Besides, you're the only one I can trust to see this through the end, no matter what career path you will take."

"I don't understand," Harry replied, gripping his armrests tightly.

But the Minister suddenly stood, rounding the desk until he reached Harry. Leaning forward, strong hands touched his shoulders in a show of support. Harry couldn't decide whether he wanted to flee or succumb to his sudden exhaustion.

"All I want you to do," Kingsley murmured, "is to fight for a better wizarding world. Continue to fight for it, no matter what happens.” He smiled nervously, but the strength in his hands didn't leave him.

Something about the way he said those words didn't seem alright. But Harry couldn't pinpoint what. He nodded, though, easily agreeing, since his friends remained the most important people in his life. And Harry would do everything, absolutely everything to make sure they were safe and happy.

 

* * *

 

He landed on the ground, his back connecting with a hard surface that shot pain through his bones, making him gasp involuntarily.

Despite the physical distraction, Tom's mind sharpened, realizing that this situation was most unusual, since it took complex magic to overwhelm him like this. If he got his hands on Abraxas, he would skin him alive.

The change in temperature hit him at once and without hesitation he forced his muscles to obey him, gripping his wand tightly in the direction of the fading, strange light that now seemed to escape him.

He had been pulled outside, the experience unlike any travelling method Tom had ever used.

The gift couldn't have been a Portkey. His spells would have detected it.

Hoisting himself upwards, he attempted to catalogue his surroundings. Attempted, but couldn't.

Tom was forced to duck, moving sideways as a red spell shot past him, hitting what appeared to be stone with deadly precision.

His body still ached from the impact.

He was not alone.

"It can't be real," a voice uttered, shocked and another spell hit the spot where Tom's leg had been just a second ago.

He was under attack.

"You-,"

Tom hissed, using his arms to push away from what appeared to be a headstone. His eyes scanned the area, and the familiarity of this place confused him even more. He had been transported to the graveyard at Little Hangleton. But why?

Tilting his head sideways, he used a slashing motion, his wand erecting a dark blue barrier, which reflected the incoming curse, forcing his attacker to step sideways.

Dark eyes narrowed, watching the figure closely. The magic collided, static energy partially obscuring his features, but Tom saw that he wasn't standing that far away from him.

In fact, the sight alone almost made him pause in his defense.

Flowers lay at the man's feet, evidently having been dropped at Tom's untimely appearance. The stranger must've wanted to visit someone's grave, although it didn't explain his hostile behavior. And no one ever visited this place.

The barrier between them held, but it cleared, transparent energy humming with contained power.

Standing in front of him was a man. Fairly young, from what Tom could see, and dressed in odd trousers and a black jacket. Muggle clothes, of the kind that Tom would call indecent. He'd never seen anything like it, nor had he seen a respectable person wearing such form-fitting attire.

But what distracted him the most were the man's features, his face etched in horror and bright green eyes rapidly blinking behind round glasses, as if to deny what was in front of him.

The stranger was appealing, but Tom would never let himself get distracted by physical appearances.

It was the man's magic and more importantly, his emotions, that assaulted him at once.

Hatred, confusion, followed by despair and back to hatred.

The attacker was an open book.

Good.

Tom's lips curled upward.

 

* * *

  
It was morbid to find graveyards fascinating.

Harry thought that after attending so many funerals two and half a years ago, he would be keeping his distance from places of mourning and death.

Unfortunately, these days it became more necessary to seek the comfort of permanent silence, to find rest and to clear his mind in a place that didn't talk back.

And if his friends knew that tonight he was paying his respects to Merope Gaunt, that he'd actually ordered her grave to be installed, they would have most likely called St. Mungo's.

Harry didn't really care. Months of contemplating his future, self-imposed isolation and a strange melancholic air hanging over his neck like a noose had driven him to visit Little Hangleton on New Year's Eve, declining parties and all that rot.

Pretending to be happy these days made him feel like a fraud.

The night's sky would have been beautiful if not for the very real nightmare Harry seemed to have fallen into.

Tom Riddle was staring at him, standing in the shadows of his mother's grave, just as handsome and just as terrifying as Harry remembered from Dumbledore's memories.

It couldn't be.

It just couldn't.

Harry had watched the bastard die, had watched his emaciated form being hit by the rebounding killing curse, watched as the light faded from eerie crimson eyes, ending Harry's lifelong torment.

The monster couldn't have created more Horcruxes.

It just wasn't feasible.

So why?

Why was Tom Riddle here?

His wand hand shook, and the urge to pinch himself grew with every second that passed between them in silence.

Why? Why was this stuff always happening to him?

Harry readied himself, knowing he only had two options left. Either he could pretend this was an elaborate dream and ignore the issue entirely, or...

...or he could fight.

Memories of 4th year stirred inside his mind, dreadful images of cauldrons and blood, and flesh making his heart beat faster. Harry felt cold sweat bathing his skin, but he had no choice. Somehow he didn't think this Tom Riddle would politely answer his questions if he simply asked.

He didn't look like a ghost. He used magic, as powerful and effective as it had always been.

 _Please_ , let this be a nightmare.

The holly wand drew an arc and Harry focused, shutting out the why and how. Magic rushed forward, eagerly obeying him as it formed the spell necessary to break Riddle's shield. White light hit dark magic at once, and the ominous crack that reverberated through the air made his hair stand on end.

Unfortunately, his victory was short-lived, because Riddle transfigured the broken stones around him into deadly black fire, which attacked him at once. Transfiguring objects into pure elements?

And still, he wasn't saying anything. Just considering him. Using his infamous power like it was nothing.

Merlin, Harry couldn't lose against him. Couldn't lose the Elder Wand's allegiance, although it was still safely ensconced with Dumbledore.

Moving around, Harry's spell connected with it, water crashing against pure heat and making steam obscure his vision.

"It's not every day, I get attacked without warning. You might want to explain yourself," Riddle said, finally breaking that stalemate between them, his posture calm, confident. In control.

Harry Disapparated, reappearing behind Riddle and using the momentum to shoot an _Impedimenta_ at him.

Riddle blocked it with frightening ease. "Assault is illegal."

"So is that spell you just used," Harry shot back and Riddle's lips tightened.

Suddenly there were knives appearing out of thin air, rushing at him.

Was he a Horcrux? Harry thought, blocking the knives with a minor dark spell. He was real, deadly. Made of bones and flesh and so much magic...

The man didn't feel like one, although Harry couldn't exactly tell how he knew that. The ability to feel and detect Horcruxes had died with him, after all.

Instead of backing down, Harry closed the distance between them, risking much. Riddle wouldn't be able to parade around as innocent, with the magic he was now using. And he was angered and startled enough to make Harry suspicious. Maybe the Boy Who Lived wasn't even dealing with a man who knew him.

Riddle had no idea.

No taunts, no whispered threats followed Harry. Just magic. He saw an opening, ducking low before swiping the man's legs underneath him. They both tumbled forward, but Riddle rolled them both over instantly, his left leg digging into Harry's wand arm.

If Riddle had no idea, had no recognition of Harry or the final battle, or anything really, that meant he was defending himself…against him.

Fuck. The second scenario was worse.

A familiar yew wand was now pointing at his face. With another flick Riddle would be able to disarm him, But that wand. That wand had been destroyed by the ministry, on Kingsley Shacklebolt's orders, in fact. Harry had been present, had witnessed its destruction and the ministry's order to burn Voldemort's corpse, to scatter the ashes across the sea.

No place of worship should exist for his escaped followers.

Instincts taking over, Harry did the only thing he could do in the situation. His left hand shot out, and the wandless spell pushed Riddle away from him. Counting on Riddle's surprise, Harry picked up his own wand again and made vines grow out of the earth, making sure that they would keep Riddle entangled. Devious as the man was, he still managed to hit Harry with a curse that temporarily made his left leg feel numb, as if every muscle had suddenly vanished. Harry coughed, angrily looking down at the wizard.

Still, the irony wasn't missed on him. Tied to the ground, Tom was now lying right in front of his mother's grave, his impenetrable mask gone.

The familiar rage danced with surprise and for a moment Harry relished in it, feeling the power he had over Tom Riddle, if only for a few seconds. No doubt, the man would use his own wandless magic against him, and soon.

Harry stared at him coolly.

" _Stupefy_!"

And Riddle, future Dark Lord or Horcrux, slumped bonelessly to the ground, his features contorting into unbound fury, before smoothing out.

Harmless as a kitten.

"Kreacher!" Harry called, gasping for breath. He could barely stand. Thankfully, his house-elf didn't need everything explained. Kreacher appeared, took a look at the unconscious man lying on the ground and Harry smirked. "Take him home and make sure he can't escape."

"Yes, Master Harry."

The two popped out of the place and Harry looked around him, grimacing at the wreckage; the cemetery and more importantly, Merope's empty grave having been turned inside out. Stones blocked the small path and figures of angels missed heads or wings. He would need to repair it, before the Muggle police noticed a thing.

But Harry needed some answers first. And a drink.


	2. Initiation

The Atrium was packed, bodies of robed figures wearing outdated hats rushing along the corridors, flustered and in a hurry. It was a typical Monday morning after a Ministry's party as big as the New Year's Eve celebration and not everyone had managed to sleep off their obvious hangover.

Draco ducked his head, mindful of the memos flying around. People recognized him, their staring blatantly invasive to him. And the pointed looks didn't exactly help, but if the war had taught him anything, it was the ability to remain inconspicuous. Besides, the rumpled looks of the masses made it very clear that their opinions of him didn't matter.

He had an appointment with the Undersecretary, which was much more important. Missing it would permanently kill any chances of finding a job. Bad behavior included.

Such was a life in this new world, where Muggleborns swarmed the ministry and a pureblood's last vestige of power remained in the Wizengamot.

The corridor leading to the DMLE narrowed and he took a few turns. Draco was following an elderly couple, thankful that they hadn't noticed him yet. The two didn't seem to want to visit anyone in particular and that's why it was no surprise when they halted suddenly, and Draco, having seen why, quickly tried to sidestep them. The corridor harbored the honorary commemorative plaque that had been installed by the ministry after the war. And many visitors simply wanted to see what the fuss was about. Draco sniffed.

The plaque depicted a simple inscription, meant to show its devotion to a single man. Draco desperately tried not to look at it again, but people often visited this particular level of the ministry just to stare at it, effectively drawing even more attention from other curious ministry workers.

Peering at it, Draco couldn't help but hate himself all the more.

 _Death Conquered, Life Liberated - In Honor of Harry James Potter_  
_2 May, 1998_

Such a simple thing. Classy and understated according to the Prophet. Personally, Draco always found the thing tacky, but he understood the gesture behind it and the necessity for an institution like the ministry to make amends. They didn't manage to take care of national security and had all but handed the responsibility of defeating the Dark Lord to a bunch of children, Potter included. Nevertheless, Potter still had enemies inside this building, people who had scoffed at the sight of the installation. But the public had always been torn between resentment and adoration.

Almost three years since the battle of Hogwarts had passed, and the fervor and need for a hero never subsided. He'd read the articles and had collected all the material of the ceremony. Potter had been in attendance, and despite his calm disposition, Draco had noticed that the git appeared less than pleased with the entire thing. Moving pictures captured his tense posture, the hard line that was his mouth and the flash of distaste in those bright green eyes. Years ago, Draco might have concluded that Potter needed something grander, like a statue maybe.

Nowadays, it was simply easier to accept that his initial opinion of Potter's attention seeking didn't hold, couldn't hold in light of Potter's status as a recluse. Harry Potter hated it all.

And that opened up a can of worms the size Draco didn't even want to think about. Thinking about the past was hard enough without adding an entirely new layer, a positive layer to the Boy Who Lived.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” the woman gushed, gripping her husband's arm and Draco quickly hurried along the corridor, swearing under his breath. _Fuck the hero worship_.

Potter was human, flawed, just like him, and it was time the wizarding world recognized it.

The Undersecretary to the Minister had an office located near the Head Auror's quarters and people would be hard pressed to seek him out on this level. Surrounded by law enforcement, Draco imagined that the man just liked the additional protection. Draco's robe billowed behind him and a few Aurors emerging from their offices threw him looks of distaste.

The door leading to Undersecretary Baine's room looked deceptively simple, with only a small inscription indicating that a high-ranking ministry official was even working at this place.

Narrowing his eyes, he considered the man's motives further.

Halting his steps, the Malfoy heir could imagine that Baine probably wanted his colleagues to feel as if he was one of them, on equal ground with the DMLE and other departments. Such a Slytherin tactic for someone who hadn't even gone to Hogwarts. Even Shacklebolt had succumbed to the allure of power, sequestering himself on another level, slightly apart from everyone.

But maybe Draco was just imagining things. Assigning motives to innocent people made dealing with their innocence slightly less frustrating.

Dipping his head, he knocked on the door.

He didn't have to wait long, before an assistant opened it, beckoning him inside as soon as she recognized his face.

Fools, he thought viciously. Draco could have been anyone, could have been Polyjuiced and these people wouldn't even sense a threat. Nothing had changed since the war.

The woman, Miss Larke, pointed at the chair in front of the expensive looking mahogany desk, the most impressive furniture of this deceptively small office. Everything else looked decidedly less decadent. Gesturing for him to take a seat, she moved and Draco observed her harsh features, the empty look in her eyes as she returned to her own seat.

Undersecretary Baine wasn't here.

“Mr. Malfoy, thank you for coming on such short notice,” she began, picking up a quill.

He carefully blanked his face, crossing his legs without trying to appear arrogant.

“I was led to believe that this would be a job interview for the assistant position.”

How many assistants did Baine have? And why would he allow to let her work at his office, going through his stuff like that?

Where the hell was the man?

Larke looked up sharply, but he couldn't really read her expression.

“You were correct, though I believe all assistants working at the ministry, especially those working under the Minister or Undersecretary are required to have no criminal record.”

Grey eyes hardened instantly. He knew that. He knew all of it, and yet the letter he'd received earlier this morning implied that it wouldn't matter. Not in his case.

It was his only hope. So what was she playing at?

Pushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear, Larke considered him, her quill no longer dancing across the parchment.

“You're wondering why we invited you here, correct?”

Draco didn't even bother replying. His expression was obvious enough. He was unprepared, however, to see her gaze morph into something gentle, as if soothing a caged animal. He did not like the implications of that.

She pursed her lips. “Undersecretary Baine recognizes talent when he sees it, and he is prone to giving second chances to those who normally wouldn't get anything.”

Draco wanted to snarl. He was not a fucking _charity case_. Her underlying words against the ministry and especially Shacklebolt weren't missed on him, though.

Something was going on.

“I don't underst-,” he began, but her raised hand cut him off, the infuriating smile on her face never slipping away.

“You do, Mr. Malfoy. You do.” Tilting her head to the side, she blinked as if focusing on words only she could hear, before looking back at him. “In any case, we asked you to come today in order to discuss a job opening that would utilize your skills, especially in Potions.”

“I'm not applying for an assistant position?” he asked, stomach churning uncomfortably. This was unexpected.

Her features turned mournful. “Regrettably, we cannot hire former Death Eaters. Not for something as delicate as this.”

They didn't trust him.

The hopelessness burned his insides, and for a second Draco was tempted to bow his head, to show his weakness so openly, if only to let it all out. He couldn't. Hands curled into fists and he stared unseeingly at the stack of parchment on the desk. What now?

“Can, can I ask what this new job offer would entail?” he forced out. Potions? Personal stock for the Undersecretary? Something for the DMLE?

Bracing her hands against the table, Miss Larke suddenly stood, and her painted nails tapped against a blue folder, which she then picked up.

Once again, he couldn't read her expression. And that was unusual in itself, because people always had been easy to read for him. Very few individuals possessed the necessary skill to blank their emotions so completely.

“Certainly,” she replied. “But before we discuss it, I would like to ask you something, Mr. Malfoy. And I require a truthful answer.”

Slipping a photograph out of the folder, she flipped it and held it up for him.

Bemused, he tried to focus on the image, but all he could see was a simple necklace with a strange orb attached to it. The picture didn't move, so he couldn't exactly tell, but from what it looked like, the orb contained wisps of something swirling inside it, kind of like a crystal ball.

“Have you ever seen this object?”

No, he hadn't. And his obvious lack of knowledge pleased her, although he couldn't tell why. Draco swallowed heavily, feeling unease twist alongside his body.

 

* * *

 

Kreacher had outdone himself, the amount of rope and house-elf magic making Riddle appear like a vicious animal in need of control.

Harry stared at the unconscious man, dwelling on this new development that had thrown his entire life off course. Again.

The wizard couldn't be a Horcrux. Even from a distance, the man's magic felt too contained, too whole for a fragment of Voldemort. Hell, not even the snake-faced bastard had ever felt like that, as if his entire power was controlled by the sheer force of his will. Instead, it had snapped around Voldemort like whips, parting the air and infusing everyone in the vicinity with the horror of magic as unstable as his.

This man who looked like Tom Riddle in his 20s and acted like Tom Riddle, in fact, breathed magic. The unique force was being held back like a waterfall that would sweep someone away at Riddle's command. This Tom Riddle was at his prime, well on his way to become the most powerful Dark Lord in history. But a Dark Lord that still possessed enough reason to focus on maintaining barriers between himself and the ordinary world.

In short, he was dangerous. And so Harry would have to make sure that he wouldn't accidentally give Riddle an inch to prove it.

Steeling his resolve, Harry gripped his own wand, intentionally ignoring the hum of the yew wand he'd taken away from Riddle. It was safely stored away behind the strongest wards he could erect.

And it called to him as easily as his own holly wand did.

Now, keeping Riddle at bay required effort and for that Harry would need to make few moral concessions.

Stepping forward, he drew a line with his wand, watching as a small cut appeared on Riddle's forearm. Another rush of memories from 4th year nagged at his mind, but Harry couldn't, no, wouldn't let himself get distracted.

Blood welled up and another flick produced a tiny vial, which caught a few drops of it. He summoned it quickly, hoping that his stunner would hold a minute longer or so.

They were alone at Grimmauld Place, only Kreacher keeping a watchful eye on the house, since Harry had ordered him not to let anybody in. Not even Ron or Hermione.

The Black family wine cellar didn't exactly appear like a fitting place to entrap a Dark Lord, but Riddle's pressed slacks and his button-down shirt oddly fit his surroundings, reminding Harry of Muggle films of the 50's.

Pointing his wand at himself, Harry made his own sacrifice, drawing blood and letting it fall carelessly to the floor. And then he began to chant, having memorized the spell from one of the books on blood wards.

The Latin flew from his lips, a litany of words keying together both Harry's and Riddle's blood, as he slowly began to pour it over the spot where his own life force had hit the ground. A faint, greenish tint began to mingle with the stale air of the cellar, throwing Riddle's sharp features into light and making Harry look at him closely, as he continued to chant.

So innocent. No one would believe this man capable of so much destruction. Dark locks fell into his face. Unconsciousness suited Riddle, making him appear more human, and for a moment Harry took pleasure in having some control over him.

The ward that sprung forward almost knocked his breath away, so strong in its essence. It contained both Harry and Riddle's magic and would enable Harry to keep Riddle inside the cellar. The man wouldn't be able to use his wandless magic to free himself and the ward would hold for a few hours, though certainly not enough to deal with a Dark Lord of his caliber.

Harry bit his lip, watching as the magic worked its way. Time to begin the questioning.

 

* * *

 

If there was one element to humanity he liked even less than sleeping, it was unconsciousness. Dreams, he could deal with. Inexistence, however...

Memories of the orphanage hammered against his mental shields, but it wasn't enough to distract him from the visceral reality of his predicament.

He'd been caught off guard.

As a child, Tom had trained himself to appear unconscious in situations such as this one. Still.

He did not know _where_ he was.

He did not know _who_ had succeeded in taking him away from the cemetery.

And most importantly, he did not know what or who had managed to transport him there in the first place.

It was a conundrum of unreasonable proportions, forcing Tom to be on the defense.  
Unacceptable.

“You're awake,” a male voice uttered, the pleasant cadence not distracting him from the very reality of his imprisonment. He opened his eyelids, taking his time. His eyes instantly zeroed in on the stranger in front of him. The same man who'd dared attacking him and thus proving that he could not be underestimated. They were alone.

The man remained standing, no doubt in a show of bravado in order to state his superiority. Had Tom possessed the freedom in both his legs and hands, he would've quickly remedied the situation. Unfortunately, house-elf magic, from what he recognized, bound him tightly to a chair, adding to the humiliation and fury he could feel building inside his veins. And there was something else, something in the air, that made every thought of breaking away redundant.

A ward, no doubt.

He didn't have much to go on here, which was slightly unpleasant, but nothing he couldn't work with. If life had taught Tom anything, it was the ability to thrive during extreme situations. And that's what he would do. Schooling his expression, he eyed the stranger, looking for obvious weaknesses and seeing none.

“You're Tom Riddle,” the man began, leaning against the wall, his arms at his side. No wand.

It wasn't a question, but Tom would've liked to know where that man got the name from anyway.

“First you attack me and now I'm being held in captivity. The least you can do is introduce yourself, unless manners are a foreign concept to you.”

Green eyes hardened instantly and the Dark Lord focused on his behavior, how the man was forcing himself not to react more strongly.

“Harry Potter. My name is Harry Potter,” the bespectacled man said eventually. And Tom noticed it at once.

The man, Potter, was waiting for something. Some sort of outward reaction from him. That he could tell.

When Tom didn't provide, something briefly crossed Potter's face. A confirmation. It was something he'd have to examine later, once he got out of this place.

Potter.

Pureblood, although Tom couldn't remember every having read about a Harry Potter in that line.

According to the records, Charlus Potter should currently be the heir to the family.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” Tom began, subtly testing his bindings. “Why am I here?”

But Potter completely disregarded the question, whether it was out of spite or disinterest, Tom couldn't tell. It irked him, nonetheless.

Potter contemplated something and his next question didn't really speak for his mental health, Tom thought.

“What year is it, Riddle?”

Ridiculous.

He was already tired of playing this game and the bindings on his hands would soon begin to deteriorate under the force of his wandless magic.

“1950. Though now I'm starting to worry for your sanity,” Tom hissed, enjoying the flush of anger on Potter's face. So easy to rile up.

But after a moment, Potter only lowered his chin, muttering something that sounded like 'look who's talking', before stepping forward.

“I'm afraid what I'm about to tell you might not help in that department, but it's necessary for you to realize what's going on,” Potter said, drawing his wand. Tom tensed, feeling the rush of foreign magic against his skin. Its quantity alone gave him the kind of sensation he'd rarely felt before, which meant this man was, without a doubt, a challenge.

Potter breathed, briefly closing his eyes.

“You're not from this time. It's January, 2001.”

 

* * *

 

Harry waited for some kind of reaction, but Riddle's eyes simply drifted away, disregarding Harry's words altogether. 'He must really think I'm insane', Harry thought in wonder.

Well, not everyone just travelled 50 years to the future only to be attacked by someone unknown. Still, Riddle's words remained true. The man was no Horcrux and he had no recollection of anything from Harry's past, unless he was an even better actor than Harry thought.

After a while, the black-haired wizard began to circle the unmoving Dark Lord, his steps light and airy. Riddle's shoulders didn't tense. He didn't crane his neck, but when Harry stepped into his vision again, those eyes remained fixated on him.

“If you don't want to believe me, that's perfectly fine,” Harry voiced, no longer caring what the maniac thought. “But you'll find yourself in a whole lot of trouble, if you walk around believing you're still in the 50's.”

“Prove it.” Riddle's words sounded so simple, so similar to the way a young boy had asked Dumbledore to do the same, back in the orphanage.

This would take longer than Harry thought. Sighing, he turned around, swiftly pocketing his wand again. He wouldn't release Riddle from the bindings until he made sure the man was not a threat.

Although, thinking that any manifestation of Voldemort wouldn't be threatening, was a joke in itself.

“Kreacher,” Harry called, and the house-elf appeared, staring at Riddle warily. The man stared back, disinterested.

“Could you bring me yesterday's Prophet and that book we talked about?” he asked, and Kreacher nodded fervently.

“Kreacher is bringing them immediately, Master Harry.” Disappearing again, Harry was suddenly confronted by Riddle's smooth laughter, as the man stared up mockingly at Harry.

“You actually think you can convince me that I've travelled to the future by bringing me books and newspapers, Potter? You do realize that kind of material can be fabricated.”

Harry shrugged, uncaring. “As I said before, believe what you will. Besides,” he said, turning fully towards the young Dark Lord. “I imagine, even Lord Voldemort would recognize an unprecedented feat of magic if it stared him in the face, right?”

Kreacher popped back into the cellar, depositing the book on the 20th century wizarding world and the newspaper on a nearby table, before leaving again.

Still, the air turned unnaturally cold. Harry shivered, not able to hide it from the man.

“Where did you get that name?”

It was no use, really. Harry prepared himself for the incoming catastrophe. Tom Riddle had scared him at the age of 12. Now, he wouldn't say it was the same type of fear. But pretending that Harry could lower his guards around the man would just get himself killed.

“Your name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, named after your father who was a Muggle,” Harry began, and Riddle's face turned white. “You are the Heir of Slytherin and you killed your father and grandparents at the age of 16, effectively searching for something that would make you immortal. And you found it. You made your first Horcrux in 6th year and if I'm guessing correctly, you must have contacted Hepzibah Smith recently to obtain the cup and locket in order to make more Horcruxes.”

The air felt like ice puncturing Harry's body, yanking at his vital organs, but with a small sense of vindictive pleasure, he witnessed the utter desolation of Tom Riddle.

Funny, how words could destroy a man more easily than any weapon could.

And that's what Harry would do.

“In the end, I killed you in 1998, destroying all your Horcruxes along the way.”

The magic snapped. The fury that met Harry could barely be contained. And Riddle's determination to eradicate him multiplied with every passing second.

And because Harry always made stupid decisions under stupider circumstances, he decided to bind Riddle to him.

It would give him more than a few hours to deal with the man.

Raising his wand again, Harry began to chant.


	3. Isolation

He'd never had much trouble focusing on a book, reading through the chapters in fascination and inhaling knowledge like the very air he breathed. 

Tonight was an exception.

Sitting in the Black family library, Tom poured over the contents of books and newspapers that littered the table, feeling the wards hum around the house in acknowledgement.

After this rather spectacular revelation, Potter had been at least kind and foolish enough to let him move around the house freely, ending the conversation which would have consisted of threats, demands and physical attacks on Tom's part, much of what he did when he was cornered by an enemy.

Which hadn't happened on such a scale since...ever.

Potter had slammed the door in frustration, after dropping the bindings. And now Tom was sitting here, alone in his mind.

The truth stared him in the face, indeed.

A fleeting chance of it being an elaborate fantasy on Tom's part gave him hope in order to continue his research.

The reality, as such, was simply, too unbelievable, unacceptable for him to take at face value.

He was dead.

Or would be.

The initial, visceral reaction to this vital piece of information hadn't surprised him much. What did surprise him was the numbness, the nothing settling inside his bones, turning this reality sluggish and thus more similar to a dream, or a nightmare.

He'd struggled with these thoughts all his life, but for the first time not even his Occlumency shields could prevent the letters from swimming right in front of him, couldn't prevent the mind-numbing terror settling underneath his very soul.

He was dead.

Unquestionably, irrevocably gone.

And the single reason for that impossibility rested within the mind of a 20 years old boy, who apparently was declared the Boy Who Lived, for surviving the killing curse.

Twice.

Tom grinned, the motion unfamiliar but so welcome in light of the utter insanity that was his life right now. Not even twenty-four hours have passed and everything he'd ever known, everything he believed in had been turned upside down.

Fingers clenched around the paper, almost tearing through it.

The headline proclaimed the end of the Second Wizarding War, and the picture displayed the boy in question, standing over the fallen, decrepit form of his future self.

His future self. A monster.

How could it have gone so wrong? How could he have miscalculated so deeply?

Pale hands gripped the edge of the table.

He was dead.

That boy was now resting upstairs in his bedroom, having successfully imprisoned him for an entire week, sacrificing much of his strength for it. Potter was recovering now.

And Tom knew those blood wards would hold. He'd felt the strength passing through the walls, through doors and wooden panels, tugging at his magic insistently. Now he was feeling the connection between Potter and himself.

Harry Potter was strong.

But not infallible, Tom imagined, remembering his open face, his volatile emotions, which the boy displayed for everyone to see. Susceptible to manipulation.

And as he stared at the moving picture, Tom could picture himself wrapping his hands around that neck, snapping it and ending the boy's life once and for all.

He could still do this. He could turn his future around, could learn from this experience and make the best of it, before returning home.

 _Time travel_. Surely it was a gift from fate to bestow him with such intimate knowledge of his future. And as he breathed carefully, Tom fixated his gaze on Potter's face, memorizing it, dissecting it. He could change his future, bring it back on course while removing the obstacle that had been standing between him and immortality.

Closing his eyes, Tom counted to ten.

He could change this. He would. Because the alternative would surely destroy him altogether.

And so he prepared himself, going through the steps that would ensure he could escape this place and think of a proper way to deal with Harry Potter.

But first, he would need Abraxas' gift back, and his wand, both of which Potter had taken away from him.

He wasn't dead, no. He was very much alive.

 

* * *

 

Harry blinked in the darkness, only the moonlight indicating that he hadn't gotten much sleep yet.

Curiously enough, he did remember drawing the curtains close, although Regulus Black's old bedroom usually didn't let much light in anyway.

Something was wrong.

Picking up his glasses from the nightstand he tried to make out more than a blurred shadow standing right in front of him.

His bedsheets slipped down, exposing his body to the cold, but it wasn't the temperature that made him shiver, once he got a good look.

No, Tom Riddle's sharp gaze was on him, his yew wand pointed right at Harry's face.

Impossible.

He'd checked the wards, before going to bed and even put up curses to keep Riddle away from this room. How did he even get back his own wand?

Something must have shown on his face, because Riddle's impassive face tuned just a little bit predatory.

"How would you like to die, Potter?"

The question was asked so casually as Riddle's eyes slid lower, examining him like a scientist would. Or maybe a lover, Harry thought a little hysterically.

"Of old age, preferably," the Boy Who Lived answered, shifting forward until his feet touched the thick carpet.

Riddle's wand didn't waver, only following his movements. Hunting for weaknesses.

Harry would've felt violated, if it wasn't for the sheer disbelief making him sit still. The adrenaline rushed through his head, battling away the last traces of sleep. Harry glanced sideways.

He wouldn't be able to grab his wand quickly enough, so the only weapon Harry could use against Riddle was distraction.

And the best way to divert the wizard's attention was to sate his curiosity, his obsessive need for answers.

Licking his lips absently, Harry stood, well aware of his semi-naked state and Riddle's blatant observation. The urge to laugh grew with each second that passed between them in silence.

"We don't always get what we want," Riddle voiced. And now Harry's sleep-addled brain added innuendos to statements that were for all intents and purposes harmless. Might as well push forward, Harry thought stubbornly.

"You would know that now, wouldn't you."

Riddle's wand sparked.

"I know you're itching for it,” Harry continued, goading the wizard. “You wanted to kill me back then, in the cellar. I could see it in your eyes."

"And that surprises you?” Riddle laughed, disbelief tinged with madness. “You're responsible for my demise, Potter."

"No, you're responsible for it,” Harry shot back, getting angry for the first time since this whole thing started. Merlin, only Riddle could make him feel like this. He hadn't felt anger in quite a while.

“If you hadn't been so hell bent on hunting me down, you could've easily won the war, or your future self would have. I don't know."

Riddle stepped even closer, almost looming. "That doesn't change a single thing. I read about the prophecy-,"

"Which was self-fulfilling.” Harry leaned forward, rising to his feet. They were almost the same height now and Harry didn't feel inclined anymore to let himself be intimidated by the man.

“Every decision you made, everything you did was controlled by that bloody thing. Unlike you, I had no choice."

“Spare me the dramatics,” Tom hissed. His wand almost pressed against Harry's chest. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just end it right now. One reason. And trust me, seeing you bleeding to death is a tempting image, Harry.”

_Now who's being dramatic?_

“Sure.” he grinned, wanting to unsettle the Dark Lord further.

“Deep down you already have your reason. You don't want to kill me. Not really. If I die now, everything you want to know to stop your fate, to stop all this, will die with me.”

The moonlight cast shadows on the walls, throwing Riddle's profile into clarity. Harry observed him closely, could tell that behind that mask the man was going over Harry's words.

“And what's to say you wouldn't die as well?” Harry said, adjusting his glasses. “Fate always liked to throw us together, after all. You jump, I jump. That kind of thing.”

“I could rip it out of your mind.” Riddle was serious.

“You could.” Harry smiled, though he didn't really feel that confident. “And then I'll trap you inside my mind and we'll both be a drooling mess. Go ahead, if you want.”

Riddle didn't know Harry's skills in Occlumency. Or lack thereof. Which was a good reason to start practicing, Harry thought, a bit alarmed.

He sighed, carding his fingers through his hair. “Nothing you do, Riddle, not even torture could make me submit to your will. Your older self never managed either, and he was considerably more powerful than you.”

“Very well.” Riddle's countenance suddenly shifted, almost turning amiable. The man lowered his wand casually. “Then I suggest we discuss our options, since we both want answers only the other person can give.”

The sudden change threw Harry off guard. What was Riddle playing at?

“Like how you managed to travel to the future?” Harry asked. From the way Riddle had reacted so far, none of this time travelling business must have been intentional on his part.

The wizard nodded.

Harry would figure that mystery out, and hope that Riddle would figure out less than him. Too many secrets and lives were at stake here. And now that Riddle had his wand back, he could technically start working on destroying the blood ward Harry had cast. Which would give Harry even less of a week now to deal with him.

 

* * *

 

What a mess.

Draco scowled, glaring at his cauldron as if that would change the amount of brewing he needed to do.

It was nice to be able to brew in his family laboratory instead of the rotting, filthy labs at the ministry, which Draco thought were substandard for even the most dense students.

He wasn't a student anymore, though. But not a Potions Master either.

Thinking about that, however, just depressed him even more, since working for Undersecretary Baine didn't mean he'd ever achieve any Mastery in that subject. The ministry selected its Potioneers carefully, and the background checks on them weren't less restrictive than applying for a simple secretary position.

But Titonius Baine had taken him in, relegating Draco to the position of an independent brewer contracted under the ministry. By all accounts, Draco should be happy.

He wasn't.

The man hadn't even bothered to show his face and every form of communication usually took place via secretaries or owl. Even the potions he delivered, were never delivered personally.

"Draco, are you in there?" someone called, and he cursed, throwing a stasis charm on the cauldron, just to make sure.

Pansy threw the door open, walking into his lab as if she owned the place.

"Perfect timing, Pansy. Just bloody perfect. I was about to finish this batch, you know." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

Pansy examined her nails, smirking. "Not my fault you can't keep an eye on your appointments. And you promised we would have lunch today."

Right.

"Fine," he huffed. "Just wait outside next time. I'd rather not mess this up anymore than I already have."

Peering inside the cauldron, his friend scrunched up her nose. "More Draught of Peace?"

Indeed. That's all he's been doing these days. He probably already stank of it.

"It's like they drug themselves with it. Don't have a bloody clue why the ministry would need that much," he murmured, flicking his wand in the direction of the vials.

Pansy frowned at him. "Hm, I still don't understand why you even bother working for them."

"They pay well."

"Exactly," she drawled. "You still have enough money and I don't see the point or why you grovel at their feet. None of us do."

Draco whirled around, incensed. "That's because everyone decided to leave the country. And _I didn't_ , Pansy."

He regretted it immediately. Pansy looked at him, disappointed, and once again he cursed himself for his words. It made him look like a wanker, accusing his friends of being cowards, while he bravely fought the injustice of the new world. Bollocks.

Thankfully, the witch dropped it, only letting his silence speak for it.

"Well, do try to remember that these people don't own you. If you want a day off, ask for it."

"I'm not paid to ask anything," he replied, throwing on his cloak.

"No questions?" Her eyebrows rose.

Draco grimaced, remembering the first time he'd asked something specific.

"None." He paused, inhaling the humid air inside the lab. "Baine and his staff, they're a bit secluded, I think. The only time I even saw the man was at that ministry summer ball last year. He just talked to Shacklebolt and kept everyone else at arm's length."

"You mean you didn't even talk to your new employer?" she asked. "That's a bit-"

"Unusual?" He straightened his back, smirking at Pansy.

"I think he just doesn't really want to deal with-," Draco vaguely pointed at his forearm and his friend made a face. "Maybe it keeps his conscience clean if he pretends I'm just an anonymous Potions expert or something."

Draco didn't think he sounded that bitter, but he could feel the disappointment dangling over his head.

Pansy shrugged. "He''ll have to. And until then you can enjoy your breaks and take me out for lunch." Bless her for trying to lighten the mood.

She picked up the Daily Prophet from one of the work tables, idly picking through it. Other than the usual Potter news, there was a missing person announced, though no one high-ranking.

Draco collected his bag and checked whether everything was safely stored behind wards or not, before leaving. His job was shoddy, but he wanted to do well.

 

* * *

 

"I believe you took my necklace.”

Harry stared at his sandwich, trying to ignore the menace that had joined him for breakfast. He'd had a rough night and not just because Riddle decided to interrupt his sleep with the usual announcements of imminent death.

The strain on his magic kept increasing, and although the ward would hold out until then, he couldn't keep Riddle prisoner in one place. Not since he'd deliberately lifted it and extended it towards his own person. Riddle would only feel compelled to follow him now, though it wasn't strictly necessary; only as long as they stayed in the same area.

"It was for your own safety,” Harry replied, picking up his teacup. “That necklace had almost burned through your pockets when I found it."

Riddle's lips thinned, but otherwise he didn't show any outward reaction.

"It brought you here, I suppose. That thing looks a bit like a time turner,” Harry mused, remembering the orb and how unstable the magic had felt to him.

"What were you doing at the cemetery?” the wizard suddenly asked. “Mourning my death?"

Harry almost dropped his cup, but Riddle looked serious. Why would he even think-?

"No, your mother's,” Harry replied dryly.

And now it was Tom's startled reaction, that made Harry sit back, pleased. But he didn't want to talk about his secret habits. Not even Harry's friends knew that he frequently visited his parents' and friends' graves.

Curling his fingers around the porcelain, Harry met the wizard's gaze. "Can we not talk about dead people? We should be working on something else."

There was a tense moment between them, when they did nothing but stare at each other. Perhaps Riddle simply considered how much he wanted to pry into Harry's life, but after a while the Dark wizard broke their eye contact.

Instead, he picked up another issue of the Daily Prophet, ignoring Harry's stare. Bemused, Harry noticed Riddle's open collar, the white button-down shirt he'd taken from him distracting the younger wizard. Riddle always struck him as neat, so the whole casual thing looked a bit unusual on the man. It was still one of Harry's better shirts, though.

"The Boy Who Lived, Refusing to Work for the Ministry," Tom read out, smirking a bit.

Scowling, Harry stabbed his fork into his pancake, imagining Riddle's face.

"You wouldn't want to either."

Tom hummed. "Surely you need a respectable job. And I doubt the offers were that bad.” He paused, considering Harry from beneath lowered eyelashes. “Or maybe you just don't know what to do, now that your purpose has been, ah, fulfilled."

The pancakes turned into an unrecognizable mess.

"It is disappointing to find out that my future nemesis doesn't feel the need to apply himself, choosing to waste away in some ancestral home with an ugly house-elf and-,"

"Shut up!” Harry snarled, raising his head, green eyes blazing. “You don't know anything."

That didn't seem to impress the man either. "Poor you. If I had even a fraction of the fame that you possess now, the ministry would already be under my control.” Riddle took another sip of his tea.

"That's because your ambitions are different from mine," Harry replied darkly, dropping his fork.

"Or I just have them. And you don't."

His appetite was gone. Harry stood, turning his back. "You know what, if you're such a smartass, then let's use my fame to get us both something we want,” he said, glancing sideways at Riddle. The man was still seated, enjoying his tea.

Crossing his arms, Harry stared at him impassively. "Tomorrow, we'll go to the ministry and the Department of Mysteries. They have a time chamber,” At that, Riddle rolled his eyes, evidently bored. “And the people working inside it should have enough knowledge about obscure pendants and all that stuff,” Harry said. "We could also check the archives. I'm sure the research material is valuable enough,” he threw in, suddenly remembering something Hermione had said a long time ago.

"What makes you think I want to go back?" Tom leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

The question made Harry still.

"What?"

He must have misheard.

The corners of Riddle's mouth turned upward, as if patronizing.

"Technically, this world is more advanced than my own and I gain nothing by going back in time."

"Your followers-,"

"Can take care of themselves," Tom said, uncaring.

Harry's eyes narrowed at the man. If he hadn't planned on this whole thing, Riddle must have wanted to return back to his timeline, if only to make more Horcruxes.

"The timeline could be messed up,” Harry intoned, turning toward him. “You don't belong here. And bad things happen to wizards who mess with time. Accidentally or not. You could even erase yourself."

Suddenly the dark wizard let out a chuckle, startling Harry. "So you think it should be better to work under the assumption that I will leave this place?"

"Exactly,” Harry said, frowning.

"The magic you cast,” Riddle began, changing the topic smoothly. “Caiatus Blood Ward. It binds us together for the next six days, Potter. After that, you won't be able to use it again. And nothing will keep me in here with you. So what will you do?” the Dark Lord asked in a manner that constituted a threat. “I could destroy the timeline in a way that erases _you_ and your little friends. What happens then?"

 _As if_ , Harry thought viciously. Turning around, Harry swiftly reached for the doorknob. "We'll see.”

He slammed the door behind him, for good measure. It was another habit he'd picked up, and Riddle's presence didn't exactly help keeping it all together.

Wiping his forehead, Harry took a moment to lean against the door.

With startling clarity, the Boy Who Lived realized that no one had made him feel quite like this, as if he'd just woken up to find himself in a different, colorful world, no longer blurred at the edges and lifeless.

Harry hadn't felt anything at all.

Not since Voldemort had died.

And now he did.

* * *

 

Paul McKeon emerged from the Pensieve, breathing deeply as he felt cold sweat running down his neck. Dark brown hair fell in his eyes and he took a moment to just remember; remember everything he'd witnessed. Had experienced in his own time at Hogwarts.

Pensieves were fascinating objects.

Capable of visualizing the world from many angles that the person in question hasn't even seen properly.

His own memories of school became more vivid as a result. And Merlin, he loved every second of it.

Every single time he became entrenched in the past, it fueled his insidious obsession, despite the fact that the world hadn't changed at all. Still, his obsession with the Boy Who Lived should have tapered of because of it, should have died as Harry Potter's inactivity increased.

The hero really didn't care, after all. And Paul shouldn't care either.

With the Wizengamot in control of wizarding Britain, he still suffered setbacks and so had his family, never mind the fact that the outcome of the war should have changed it all.

No one really gave a damn about Muggleborns. That meant no one really gave a damn about him.

It should have been different though.

It had taken the ministry an embarrassing amount of time to even announce Paul's disappearance to the press and the Aurors didn't really care to investigate it properly, unknown and unimportant as he was.

Oh, they were trying. Missing person and all that.

But trying and moving heaven and earth to get to him, like people would do in case a member of the Wizengamot or their family disappeared, well. Those were different things.

He had no Galleon to his name and no considerable influence on the important figureheads in this new era. In short, he was like Granger. Muggleborn, intelligent, constantly trying, someone who'd fought in the war on the light side, but without the one thing that she possessed in abundance. Harry Potter's undivided attention.

He bit his lip, frustrated.

Everything had just passed by, two and a half years of peace since You-Know-Who's end drifting away from people and making them think they were safe now. Funny.

Perhaps the only person not feeling that safety was ironically the very man who'd worked so hard to attain it.

Potter had become a recluse, refusing to endorse political figures other than Shacklebolt, refusing to attend charity balls, refusing to comment on the latest articles about him.

Paul had watched him closely, shortly before leaving. And in spite of it all, the rare glimpses he caught of the green-eyed wizard showed a warrior who still expected the worst to spring up on him.

Potter was alert at all times. He just didn't have a reason to be. Not anymore.

Well, they would give it to him soon. And when that happened, Paul would make sure Potter would be safely behind bars in Azkaban while the world crashed down around the Wizengamot. It wouldn't escalate to another war, certainly. But it would be enough to drive the filth away from the ministry, once and for all.

His hands trembled slightly, anticipation curling inside him at the prospect of facing the government. Sweet revenge, indeed.

“Someone's impatient,” a female voice called, startling him. He turned around and watched as an elderly witch pushed away from the door, her sharp heels clicking against the marble floor.

“But young as you are, your attention span is still developing,” Eleanor continued, smiling. Bowing her head, the woman took the time to inspect the empty vials on his desk.

Paul held up his hand, automatically accepting the new vial the witch handed him. It was the last memory, the last one in their extensive collection that he was supposed to study. They have done this so many times, but he never discussed his memories with her. Or the others.

His job only included studying the Boy Who Lived, memorizing his behavior in certain situations, his mannerisms, his reactions. But Paul would rather keep his discoveries to himself, selfish and impractical as it was.

Thankfully, the witch and her superiors didn't mind.

“It's the last one, isn't it?” he asked, placing it carefully aside. Eleanor didn't even look up, inspecting the Pensieve as if it would spill out all the secrets in the world.

“Indeed.” She nodded firmly. “I'll suspect you find it much more enjoyable to watch than all the others.”

He frowned at her. “And why's that?”

The witch leaned forward, smiling a bit. “Because it belongs to Ginevra Weasley, my dear.”

Impossible. Paul stared.

They couldn't have possibly extracted a memory from Potter's ex-girlfriend. Not even they could manipulate someone's mind in order to give it up. And everyone knew Potter's friends protected the man's privacy as fiercely as he did.

“How, how did you even get it?” he voiced, watching her closely. “None of his friends would just give these things up willingly.”

“Who says anything about willing?” Eleanor's smile turned darker. “No, the youngest Weasley was vulnerable enough.”

Paul didn't have a clue what that meant, but he couldn't ask anyway. She wouldn't tell.

“Will they find out?”

Patting him on the back, Eleanor turned around. “Don't worry about that, boy. Do your work and be ready by tomorrow night. The others won't be waiting forever.”

Nodding firmly, he watched her go.


	4. Distraction

The Muggle world. An abhorrent place to visit and even more irritating in light of the company he was forced to endure.

Goading Harry Potter had distracted Tom enough during breakfast to push away the rampant emotions he was dealing with. Still, watching the boy, no the man, barely three years younger than him, didn't take away from the ever present situation he was now trapped in.

2001.

A world that intended to forget his very existence.

Clenching his hands, he walked alongside Potter, crossing the street and ignoring the ongoing traffic.

The Muggle world of the 21st century couldn't even be compared to the 40's or anything Tom could've imagined.

Filth like that shouldn't have developed as far as they did, inventing new cars and building skyscrapers that dominated this place. Looking up, he inspected the gleaming lights, the billboards depicting advertisement after advertisement. Scantily clad women and men, bright colors drawing the eye; all of it created a different kind of progress. One he'd never expected.

It's as if everyone had decided after World War II, that consumerism would replace the need to conquer other nations. Evidently, it worked.

Muggles, dressed in suits and a variety of styles rushed past them, in a hurry to get to work or school. Tom couldn't decide whether to appreciate this new London, with its familiar sights surrounded by unfamiliar developments, or to loath it.

Potter, of course, didn't notice anything. Speaking of him, the tense line of his back was distracting, too.

From time to time, he would throw him one of his looks, the ones that told Tom he was still on the verge of doubting him.

Potter wouldn't attack him again, not without solving why Tom had appeared in this world in the first place. It suited him just fine. They were both on the same page for now.

Time travel was such a precarious issue, and many things could go wrong. Of course, Tom would adapt, trying to fit his plans neatly into this time without making any compromises. Potter could hold onto his delusions all he wanted and Tom would simply encourage him.

“You're planning something.” Potter didn't falter in his steps, merely glancing at him.

The subtle challenge, posited in both the way he acted and talked, made this game between them much more enjoyable.

“Whatever makes you say that?” Tom asked, matching the boy's steps. “It's not like I have much information to go on.”

They were approaching one of the Apparition spots, near Kensington Palace. The Muggle tourists swept past them like a herd that was automatically drawn to the sights.

“I don't trust you.”

“You'd be a fool, if you did,” Tom whispered, the corners of his mouth pulling upward.

Potter stopped before a wall, looking around to see if any Muggles noticed them.

“I suppose you could just tell everybody that the Dark Lord is back. I'm sure they would help you get rid of me a second time,” the older wizard continued smoothly.

And they both knew announcing this would cause a mass panic. Potter truly had nothing to threaten him with.

The boy eyed him carefully then, disdain and frustration brightening those green eyes. “I'm still wondering whether or not to simply toss you into Azkaban and be done with it. You haven't even given me a reason why I should consider your wellbeing at all.”

“Because I haven't done anything to you or your loved ones.”

Yet.

It remained without saying and Potter's lips tightened.

“You're far from innocent, Riddle,” the boy uttered, tapping the brick stone with his wand in an intricate pattern. “Shall I remind you of the crimes you already committed. The bloody Basilisk, Myrtle.”

Tom closed his eyes briefly, reigning in his own anger. So Potter knew about that, too. It didn't exactly help, but navigating this minefield of a future with an enemy who knew more than even Dumbledore had known, upped the stakes.

Making sure his expression revealed nothing, he fully turned towards the other wizard, considering him. Potter's anger was palpable, a strong emotion that told Tom everything he needed to know about the boy's temper.

“You have studied my background. Congratulations, Potter,” he said, unimpressed. The Anti-Apparition wards fell away and the wall shifted.

Potter sneered, motioning him forward. Green fire flickered around them instantly and Tom clasped his hands behind his back.

“You're still a killer. You're a Dark Lord. That makes you my business.”

“On what authority?” the dark wizard asked, voice pleasant. Potter's arrogance was a sight to behold.

He'd have to reconsider, though. Potter wasn't as selfless and meek as the papers and books made him out to be.

Tom stepped into the fire, returning Potter's gaze. “You're not an Auror and as far as I know no law can persecute me for something I haven't even done in this world. But you're welcome to try.”

With that, he disappeared, not even waiting for the hero of the wizarding world.

 

* * *

 

The Atrium welcomed Harry the same way it always did. With pointed fingers and whispering. The people who recognized him stopped what they were doing; gaping or considering whether to approach him directly or not.

He'd have to make himself as unapproachable as possible today. With a young Voldemort at his side, anything could happen, and there were still enough people alive who would recognize Tom Riddle on the spot.

Before arriving, Riddle had possessed enough foresight to pull up the hood of his cloak. And that in itself surprised Harry far more than Riddle's mild, taunting words had done earlier.

Tom had complied with everything, hadn't attacked him again, and hadn't done anything that would compromise or hinder Harry.

He'd accepted the Caiatus Ward easily, and while Harry knew he couldn't control the man forever, Tom made it easier for him to do so.

Harry would always need to remind himself that this Tom Riddle was first and foremost an actor, a charmer.

Someone who played with people, someone who made them dance to his tune until the music encased them completely like a spell that wouldn't wear off.

If Harry lowered his guard for even one second, Tom would manipulate him as easily as he'd done with everyone else. And Harry knew how simple it would be, after having fallen for Voldemort's ploys over and over again.

Making sure that no one was following them, Harry caught Tom's careful observation of the masses, the way dark eyes swept past everyone, no doubt cataloguing threats and just taking it all in.

They hurried past the statues and made their way over to one of the lifts, quickly stepping inside.

The lift closed behind them and as soon as they began moving down, Harry let out an inaudible sigh of relief.

First part done.

“So that's what it's like. Being the Boy Who Lived,” Riddle mused, startling Harry. The man was standing closer to him than necessary.

Relaxing his shoulders, Harry faced the front.

“Want to switch places? I'm sure someone like you would enjoy the fame and all that.”

He couldn't see Riddle's expression, but something told Harry that the man was enjoying himself.

“Someone like me?” Riddle's voice drifted impossibly close. The man chuckled, probably having sensed Harry's discomfort. “Certainly. But while it gives you immense power over the masses-”

Harry stiffened at that.

“- that kind of fame restricts your movements, your privacy,” Riddle said, amused. “It becomes more difficult to hide in the shadows.”

“And obviously you wouldn't want that,” Harry mocked, trying to shake away his unease. “Funny how Voldemort always relished in his fame. And unlike you, he didn't have much to hide anymore.”

“Welcome to the Department of Mysteries,” a cheerful voice announced, and the lift stopped.

Pushing away, Harry was about to step outside, but a hand on his shoulder made him stop.

“You're wrong about that Harry,” Riddle hissed, his hand tightening briefly.

He sounded exactly like Voldemort, the way Harry's name fell from the man's lips in a smooth tone. Arrogant, conceited.

Intimate.

Merlin, the power Tom held over him with just a few syllables didn't make it easier to hold onto his control.

“I know myself well enough and while my counterpart might have enjoyed openly acting against his enemies, against you, what he enjoyed even more was the ability to _make you wait for it_ ,” Riddle breathed in his ear, before stepping away.

Their shoulder brushed and Harry watched him go, not daring to breathe. Just feeling the words unravel in his mind.

How was he supposed to work with this man? How was he supposed to get rid of him?

It was true. Riddle was making him wait, pushing Harry into a position where he could only react to what was thrown his way.

And that's why he could only march on. It's the kind of thing he was built for, after all; stumbling across dangerous situations and letting his instincts carry him further.

Tom was starting to adapt, though, burying his initial confusion and anger and focusing instead on Harry in order to rattle him, a punishment for what happened. He was playing with him already, initiating a game Harry wasn't prepared for.

To what end, Harry couldn't tell. But he would react when the time came. And he would win.

Pushing up his glasses, he started to move.

The Department of Mysteries hadn't changed and the memories that came with it felt just as sluggish and inaccessible as they always had in the years after the war. But the cold, the unnatural cold down here made him grit his teeth.

Harry walked behind Riddle, not taking his eyes away from the wizard who seemed to know his way around this place.

Luckily for him, they didn't have to endure the silence between them further. One of the Unspeakables standing near the familiar entrance to the department noticed their approach.

“Mr. Potter,” the figure called, pulling down the hood of his robe and revealing a sharp-featured face, prominent wrinkles lining the man's forehead. “Didn't expect to see you down here any time soon.”

Grimacing, Harry allowed himself to walk past Riddle, offering his hand in greeting.

“It's good to see you again, Unspeakable Wigram.”

The Unspeakable threw a disinterested glance in Riddle's direction, making Harry smirk. Unspeakables were the best people for a job like this, discrete and unfazed, never asking unnecessary questions.

It also helped that Harry had saved Wigram's daughter during the war. A lot of people owed him and now wasn't the time to feel reluctant about using them in return. He had a young Dark Lord to deal with.

Harry refrained from any introductions and Tom merely observed them in silence, not at all insulted.

“I've made copies of the manuscripts and books you asked for,” Wigram began, fingers twitching nervously, as he reached for his wand. “But you need to be careful when you take them with you. Minister Shacklebolt will have my head if he realizes I gave them to you.”

With a flick, books and parchment appeared in his hands and Riddle's expression turned interested. Of course, a bookworm like him would instantly feel the need to read them all. Harry snapped his gaze back to Wigram.

“The Minister didn't authorize it?” Harry asked carefully, surprised. “I thought you would ask him.”

Wigram bit his lips. “We can't, Mr. Potter. Usually we're not allowed to pass on information from the department to any civilian asking. And you are-”

“A civilian,” Riddle ended, leaning forward. His amusement barely contained.

“I see.” Harry stared at the books.

And that was the downside to it all, Harry thought. Refusing to be the public face of the ministry, either as an Auror or politician, made it harder to gain access to valuable information. He could rely on others to help him for now. But in the future, when his actions and name faded from the wizarding world's mind, Harry would have more trouble protecting himself and more importantly, his friends. Hermione, Ron. Hell, even Teddy, who'd be vulnerable.

It disturbed him.

“Well, thanks anyway,” Harry said, frowning at his own thoughts. He needed to focus on the Riddle issue for now. “Is that all you have on time turners and _other items_?”

The letter he'd sent Wigram earlier hadn't contained any information on the necklace, but the Unspeakable would be smart enough to parse Harry's question.

“It will be enough for now,” Riddle interrupted, motioning for Harry to take them.

Right.

Taking out his infinite handbag, Harry quickly took the offered material, glancing at some of the titles before putting it all away. He'd rather not have Riddle snooping around before Harry could assess them.

He still didn't trust the dark wizard, certain that there were a few pieces of information about the necklace the man hadn't yet shared with Harry.

And that's where the next step came in.

“Before we leave, I just wanted to ask you something.” Unbuttoning his collar, Harry's fingers pulled out the necklace, making sure that the orb was still safely entrapped by his magic.

He could literally feel Riddle's irritation seeping through, directed at him. The blood ward that linked them together hummed for a moment.

Wigram stared at the necklace, confused. “Is that why you were asking for objects that functioned like time turners?”

“I just need to know if you've seen that necklace before,” Harry replied, holding it up for inspection.

The Unspeakable moved forward, reaching for it, but Harry's hand curled around the chain, keeping it away from the man.

“I hope you understand that I can't just hand it over.”

Beside him, Riddle let out a small sound, but otherwise remained still.

Wigram's disappointment was evident. “I do, but if you want me to study it closely, the department would gladly help out. “

“So you don't know what this is?” Harry asked.

“Not exactly, my boy. I can only guess.” The man shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning downward. “But there's one thing you should know about jewelry like that one.” Wigram's hands curled into fists. “Unlike time turners, these objects would need an anchor.”

Seeing Harry's bemused expression, the man continued slowly. “If it acts like a time turner, without sand and without the enchantments we place upon it, from what I see, that thing is anchored to something.”

Harry didn't see Riddle's face, but the sudden stiffening of his shoulders made him frown. Riddle must have figured something out.

“Like a link?” Harry mused, straightening his collar again. “Why?”

“Because there's a word engraved onto the surface. The soul.” The Unspeakable looked around the corridor, before fixing him with a hard stare. “Soul magic, I reckon.”

Sighing, Wigram leaned forward again. “Those are tricky things. There are rumors and legends surrounding these kind of objects, nothing concrete of course. But those books I gave you might help,” the old man whispered, suddenly pulling a purple envelope out of his pocket.

Harry, sensing that it was time to leave, made sure that his handbag was safely stored away, especially from Riddle, before turning toward Wigram.

“Alright, thank you, sir. I'll let you know if I find something.” He wouldn't, but Harry smiled anyway.

Tom inclined his head politely, every bit the gentleman. It seemed to work on the Unspeakable. His tense expression fell away.

“Certainly, Mr. Potter. Oh and before I forget. You should both hurry up.” Pointing at the envelope, Wigram held it up and Harry recognized the memo from the Auror department.

“What is it?” he asked.

The Unspeakable shrugged, but his unease returned. “Some sort of raid going on outside, near the visitor's entrance. The Auror department is scrambling for help. I don't know.”

“Raid?”

“The alarm was set off before we even arrived,” Tom informed. “Let's go.” Long fingers curled around Harry's elbow, pulling him in the direction of the lift.

The Unspeakable waved his hands, before disappearing back to the department and Harry was now forced to quicken his footsteps.

“That was incredibly foolish of you,” Tom voiced as soon as the lift closed behind them. “You should've never shown him that necklace.”

“Thanks for your opinion. I'll keep it in mind the next time another Dark Lord decides to travel through time,” Harry shot back, not the least bit interested in that argument.

He couldn't exactly trust Wigram, but he'd pick the old Unspeakable over Riddle's words anytime.

Tom frowned, crossing his arms. “He will investigate it by himself. And withhold more information, in case you ask again.”

The lift began to move faster. Riddle's stare never left him.

“You mean the way you do.” Harry replied, looking at the wizard, meeting those dark eyes. “I know you've figured something out about the whole soul magic link. The way you reacted...it was obvious.”

The man's gaze trailed upward and Harry turned his gaze back to the front, suddenly feeling unsettled. Riddle was looking at his scar.

“And anyway, you're keeping things from me. For example, you didn't tell me where you got it from.”

“I will tell you,” Tom suddenly said, to Harry's surprise.

The man's smile widened and straightened, as the lift came to a halt. “There's no reason for me not to. But in exchange I'd like to know something.”

Of course. Slytherins. Harry wanted to curse.

“Assuming the necklace needs an anchor to make a person travel through time, I only need to know _what_ anchored it,” Riddle continued swiftly, watching as the lift's door began to open.

Harry almost gasped, and his heart thudded against his chest.

Now he knew where Riddle was going with this and why he had turned suspicious as soon as the Unspeakable talked about Soul magic.

Oh hell.

Harry immediately began to move, wanting to escape this conversation. Riddle was entirely too smart.

“You're a hypocrite,” Tom said, his expression cool. “Accusing me of withholding information when you didn't even bother to tell the full story of my defeat to the wizarding world.”

His dark eyes surveyed the scene.

Immediately, Harry followed the direction of his gaze, noting the chaos outside, as Aurors and visitors and other ministry workers pushed past each other, going in different directions. Memos flew over their heads in droves.

“Soul magic,” Riddle continued, bored. “Such a complicated branch, especially if one combines it with research regarding time.”

Automatically, Harry put more distance between them, refusing to fall for the bait.

Riddle didn't give up. The bastard.

Instead, he moved closer again and now Harry wasn't sure how long he would be able to hold his tongue.

“There's a reason why I arrived at that graveyard and why I arrived precisely at the same time you were there.”

Harry felt his own temper rise. Bloody hell.

“Want to tell me more about it? Or why _you_ are _my anchor_ in the first place?”

Wrapping his hand around Riddle's arm, Harry swiftly pushed him past the crowd, keeping them both near the walls.

Horcruxes.

The only link strong enough that would enable one soul to come in contact with another, disregarding space.

Disregarding the barriers of the mind. Harry swallowed, hard, remembering Voldemort's and his own connection.

Disregarding time.

And Riddle was close enough to figuring it out.

Harry never wanted to tell him about his own status as a former Horcrux. Merlin knows, what Riddle would do with that information. But now the man was scratching at the surface of Harry's knowledge, seeking answers. And it would be hard to keep it a secret.

Riddle's previous threats rang true, and the fact that his own substandard Occlumency shields wouldn't hold against a full assault, didn't make this situation pleasant.

He was cornered. Or would be, once they left the ministry.

Riddle was about to say something else, but suddenly another person stepped into their path and Harry thanked every deity in existence for this Blessing.

“Mate, what are you doing here?” Ron asked, touching Harry's shoulder. He was dressed in his standard trainee robes, but he must have been here to guard the entrances, since other trainees were also walking the perimeter of the Atrium.

Harry breathed out, keeping Riddle in his line of vision, noticing his displeasure.

“Needed to straighten out a few things. It's nothing serious,” Harry lied, looking around, as more and more visitors disappeared, taking the fireplaces.

Ron glanced briefly between them, at the silent Riddle, not sure what to say. “Well you should better get back home. This place is a mess right now.”

And Harry remembered. His friend didn't recognize Voldemort's young form.

In fact, out of all his school friends, only Ginny might be able to. Harry pivoted around, noticing the worried faces around them.

“What's going on?”

Riddle also observed the crowd, his stare impassive.

“A few people outside fighting the Aurors,” Ron replied. “We've had issues with them for months, small battles here and there. They've always been fighting near the Muggle-repelling charms, ministry entrances, Diagon Alley, that kind of thing.”

The redhead looked over Harry's shoulder, nodding at another trainee. “But we don't even know why.”

“Death Eaters?” Harry asked, watching as Riddle's head turned, gaze snapping back to him.

“No, some unknown rogues probably. No one knows. We don't even know if it's political or not. Robards said they never demanded anything,” Ron murmured, tugging at his collar.

He looked worried and Harry briefly considered pulling out his own wand, just to be prepared in case they attacked inside the building.

“Kingsley didn't say anything, though,” Harry replied. “And the Prophet didn't report on it.”

Kingsley should have told him that. He should have told Harry if groups of unknown people were walking around, causing chaos. And then Harry chastised himself, since it was his own fault. Not knowing all that.

He hadn't bothered much with the outside world, before Riddle appeared. Thinking about that made him cringe.

He should care.

Ron gave him a look. “He didn't want to worry you, I guess. And the papers would just cause panic, turning it into a big deal. I wasn't allowed to tell.” He clapped his back. “Sorry mate.”

“It's fine,” Harry said, distracted. “Just be careful, alright? And tell Hermione I'll see her next week.”

If he managed to sort out his problem. A problem that was now waiting impatiently for him. Riddle's stare urged him to move. They needed to leave soon.

With every second passing, the ward tying Riddle to him unravelled more and more, and Tom's magic tugged at Harry's insistently, attempting to break it. Somehow, Harry doubted he would even have days left.

Riddle's power could reduce it to hours. And then the world would have another Dark Lord gallivanting around the streets. And even if they solved their problem, making it possible for Riddle to return to the 50's, what would happen then?

The man hadn't wanted to. Could Harry force him?

“Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley, I hope you aren't disclosing confidential information,” a voice interrupted, startling the group, with the exception of Tom.

“Secretary Larke. No, I- I didn't,” Ron stuttered, bowing his head. “I just wanted to warn Harry.”

Recognizing the witch, one of Baine's assistants, Harry nodded in greeting, and she returned it swiftly, her eyes sharply taking in the scene.

“Good, then I suggest you return to your post,” she ordered and Ron, having no choice, left after giving both Harry and Riddle another pointed stare.

Perhaps Ron did recognize Riddle somehow? Harry couldn't remember ever telling his friends more about Riddle's appearance. He'd probably just called him handsome, never mind that the word didn't do the man standing in front of him justice.

Looking at him, and seeing Tom Riddle staring back like that, in the flesh, dark locks framing his face, Harry felt that odd tension between them rising. Could tell that Tom felt it, too. Whatever it was.

“Mr. Potter. It would be best if you left as well,” the witch said, lips pursed. “We don't know how long this is going to take and you are a high profile target for anyone.”

“That he is,” Tom interrupted and Harry was too startled to even react when Riddle's hand smoothly moved over his own, fingers entwining.

What the hell?

Larke frowned at them, and then Harry noticed it. The woman's eyes briefly widened as she took in Riddle's form. Others might have said she was startled by his handsome face or something like that.

Harry doubted it, but the reaction was so swift, so abrupt, he might have imagined it all. Soon, her gaze turned cool again.

Riddle didn't even blink.

He simply nodded at her and then pulled Harry away, directing their steps towards one of the fireplaces. Harry felt the witch's eyes following them.

Unease turned into downright fear. But Harry couldn't really explain it.


	5. Destruction

There were a lot of things you learned just from observing people, Tom thought, sitting across from the Boy Who Lived.

Potter had dragged him to a rundown Muggle restaurant, which was located near his house. He'd insisted on a lunch break, blubbering about health and all that. It was a pathetic attempt to distract Tom from the real issues they needed to discuss. But unlike Potter, Tom had all the time in the world.

Just in the last few hours he'd learned a lot. Things that Potter probably wasn't aware of. Things that were bound to set the young man off, though.

Potter was currently nibbling at his sandwich, looking outside, as the sunlight streamed past the windows. That scar of his, Voldemort's mark was on full display and Tom traced its form carefully.

Around them, Muggles conversed in hushed tones, some lone workers going over their paper work instead of eating.

Truly, it was _his_ mark on the boy, strictly speaking. The only reminder left of Potter's first legendary survival.

There was something about it, though...

Something that hinted at a history between Voldemort and Potter that was far more intricate than possible and more than Potter had made it out to be. Tom suspected it, but his suspicion could only be off the mark, for it was truly unbelievable.

There were other things he noticed about his nemesis. Oddities that explained the glaring holes in Potter's story.

Tom had spent hours pouring over the only authorized biography that existed of the Boy Who Lived. Potter had evidently never even touched the book, despite the fact that he'd granted permission to let someone by the name Lovegood write it.

Potter's childhood remained in the shadows.

He'd grown up with Muggles and didn't have any contact to his remaining family anymore. That was all.

Tom wasn't satisfied with these explanations.

He wasn't satisfied with the dry accounts of Potter's achievements either. Honestly, protecting the Philosopher's Stone, fighting Acromantulas, Trolls and a Basilisk, _his Basilisk,_ battling over a hundred Dementors, becoming youngest Seeker in a century, winning the Triwizard Tournament even under dubious circumstances...

Not to mention breaking into Gringotts and successfully getting out...

Fighting him, Lord Voldemort over and over again. Winning every single time. At age 17.

Living.

And yet, none of these things were ever explained in detail. Not the why's and the how's. Tom could already feel what this was leading to, could envision that at some point he would get too involved, would obsess over these questions until he squeezed every drop of information out of Potter.

In a way, he needed to. He needed to understand it all in order to make sure he'd never be beaten again. But curiosity played a bit part in that, too.

Understanding this world meant understanding Potter.

If there was one thing that his counterpart didn't do correctly, it was the amount of careless planning that resulted in his defeat. His older self had never gotten the full picture of Potter's abilities or his support system.

And that's why he had failed so spectacularly.

Shameful, truly. Tom would have to investigate this matter further, if only to understand what had led Voldemort to make the decisions he did.

And now too many people knew of his path towards immortality.

Killing them, killing Potter wouldn't undo the damage, nor would it be possible to proceed as planned. All the Founders' Items were gone except for the sword. Even if they existed, Tom would have never been able to repeat what he himself had started and what his other self managed to finish.

So now he needed to find different containers for his soul. Or he would even need to find another method to secure his immortality. Basically starting from scratch.

Thinking about that, thinking about his death, made him want to tear everyone apart.

The panic he'd felt earlier still hovered at the edge of his mental shields, scratching and trying to claw its way through his defenses. Tom was mortal now. In this place. In this future.

He was mortal.

Having travelled through time on accident, he hadn't even taken his ring with him. Everything was back 'home', and in the event of his death...

...he wouldn't be able to return as a spirit in this plane. There were too many unknowns involved, now that he was officially the only wizard alive to have ever travelled that far to the future.

He only wished he himself had initiated it. There was nothing to boast about, when you didn't have control over your own life. Just like the green-eyed menace sitting in front of him.

“Stressed?”

Potter had finished his meal, evidently finding more pleasure in annoying Tom.

Placing his napkin back on the table, Tom, didn't bother with a reply. Instead he watched, fascinated, as Potter resumed his surveillance of the restaurant.

That, too, added to the intricate puzzle Tom was piecing back together. Potter could be sickeningly open with his emotions, as he'd done earlier in the company of that Weasley boy.

But those emotions could be locked away in a heartbeat, too, making Potter appear more like the soldier and leader of an army everyone had pictured him to be.

Potter had noticed Larke's suspicious behavior. And he hadn't been too forthcoming with that Unspeakable, choosing to collect favors instead of making simple pleas for help.

Categorizing people into Hogwarts houses long after they'd left didn't appeal to Tom. But if there was ever a wizard who possessed contradictory personality traits, it was Potter.

How could you want to preserve your own privacy and yet put the needs of other people first? It was so obvious that Potter was torn between those traits, evidently having experienced enough trauma, being the martyr and all that. But completely incapable of putting himself first, in spite of it all.

Tom could use those vulnerabilities, though; but that would need to wait until he first found out who had sent him to the future. Or why?

Dark eyes traced Potter's face, the line of his jaw. He could play with the boy, for now.

“Earlier, you wanted to know where I got that necklace from,” Tom began.

Potter tensed.

“I will tell you,” he continued. “And no, I won't ask about the anchor again. Not until we've confirmed it that it exists, at least.”

The boy's suspicion was amusing to witness.

“Fine.” Potter's tone was clipped. “So I guess you received it from someone, but didn't know what it would do, right?”

The 'how careless of you' didn't go unnoticed by Tom. Childish as it was.

The boy shifted in his seat and their legs brushed underneath the table, Potter's discomfort growing steadily.

“Are the Malfoys still around?” the older wizard asked.

He might have read something about trials and Potter's involvement, but Tom hadn't had the time to investigate what happened to the Death Eaters yet. A good portion of them were probably rotting away in Azkaban now.

Potter frowned, but nodded in confirmation. “Narcissa and Draco Malfoy live at Malfoy Manor. Did you receive the necklace from a Malfoy?”

“Indeed,” Tom said, rising from his seat. “His name is Abraxas.”

Potter opened his mouth, before realization hit him. “That's Draco's grandfather then. He'd dead, from what I know.”

Dead.

Right. Most of his original followers must have met their end in one way or another. Tom didn't mourn them, didn't really care, except for the fact that in this world he had no power base whatsoever, no resources to fall back on. It irritated him, but he'd have to deal with that, too.

“It doesn't matter,” Tom said, and Potter stood as well. “Abraxas implied that this necklace had been part of his family collection for centuries. There might be more information on it in the family library, even if the current Malfoys don't remember.”

Potter paid for their meal; and as soon as they walked outside, the boy's eyes quickly scanned the street, almost paranoid.

War instincts, Tom would call it. In a way, they appealed to him, since he had no practical experience to fall back on, unlike Potter.

“Are you even sure Malfoy gave it to you? Could have been anyone, really,” Potter remarked dryly, as they continued to walk.

Good question, except Tom was no fool.

“Correct,” he replied coolly, ignoring the first part.

His spells might have failed in case someone Imperiused Abraxas to write that letter. And there was that small matter with time travel, which meant that the Abraxas of this world could have simply never possessed that necklace in the first place.

Tom would need to ask. And Potter was quick enough to catch on, thankfully.

“You can ask him yourself then. I believe the Malfoys have portraits of their ancestors.” Checking his watch, Potter inspected the alley. “We have enough time for a surprise visit.”

“Potter?” he asked, not yet finished. Their footsteps halted and Tom cocked his head, returning Potter's gaze.

“Why do you believe this? I could have just lied.”

Was the boy truly that naïve?

Potter huffed, suddenly amused. It was a good look on him, the Dark Lord thought with a frown, never having met anyone who could be so relaxed in his presence. Odd.

“Because I truly think you didn't want all of this,” Harry said calmly. “The most important thing in your life is your immortality. Giving it up, even temporarily, just for a bit of fun in the future doesn't sound like you. You wouldn't take that risk.”

“Know me that well, do you?” Tom shot back, the sudden mention of his immortality tasting like acid to him. Potter's careless words grated at his nerves, although he wouldn't admit it.

“I know that you will tell me truth when it suits you.” And with that, Harry held up his arm, preparing them for Side-Apparition. Except, Tom decided to take Potter with him this time. He was rather tired of the whole sidekick role that had been assigned to him.

His magic acted swiftly, wrapping around them both and making Potter gasp. They Apparated and reappeared just outside the gates of the familiar manor in Wiltshire. Tom was pleased to note that at least some things haven't changed.

“Warn me next time, before you do that,” Potter mumbled, eyes narrowed as he rubbed his arm. Adjusting his glasses, the Boy Who Lived then turned towards the small creature already approaching the gates.

Tom did notice then that the wards didn't recognize him, which meant that at some point during or maybe after the war, the Malfoys must have banned his counterpart. How unfortunate.

Tom would need to be properly invited again and perhaps his magic wouldn't even be recognizable to the Malfoys.

“What can Mimsy do for you, sirs?” The little house-elf bowed, looking up at them with big eyes.

“It's Harry Potter,” the younger wizard began, voice kind. “Could you call Draco? I wanted to ask him something. It's rather urgent.”

“Mimsy will let Master know.” And with that the elf popped away.

“What should we call you now?” Potter suddenly asked, running a hand through that mess he called hair. “People will want to know who you are.”

Tom made a sound, raising his hand to his mouth in a gesture, as if considering.

“And? It's your problem now. Not mine,” he murmured. Potter was saved from making a remark, looking incensed as the elf returned.

“Master Draco will see to Mr. Potter and friend.”

The gates opened and Tom crossed the opulent pathway, feeling the wards around them hum in acceptance. Either the house didn't recognize him as an enemy, or his own magic hadn't reached the same cadence as Voldemort's had.

Everything remained the same. From the peacocks to the white roses and the fountain, with its richly carved ornaments.

Tom reached the entrance first and was immediately confronted with a pointed face and white-blond hair that undoubtedly belonged to a Malfoy.

Except, the boy's eyes, which were already fixated on Potter who stepped beside him. Black ancestry perhaps.

This Draco Malfoy didn't really look like a threat, though. Nor did his magic feel in any way exceptional. Even the way he held himself, slightly defensive, perhaps even nervous, was a far cry from the perfect training Abraxas had displayed in his time.

“Potter,” Malfoy greeted, turning towards Tom and nodding briefly, though his confusion was evident.

“Hello, Malfoy,” the Chosen One said, polite as ever. “Sorry for springing up on you like that.”

Malfoy waved him off. “It's fine,” he mumbled, casting his eyes downward.

So Potter and Malfoy acted cordial towards each other. As Draco let them inside, Tom considered this development.

At least some purebloods in this world must have lost their desire for supremacy if certain, prominent members could tolerate Harry Potter and his defense of Muggleborns. Either that, or they'd been beaten down into submission.

Or...

Tom caught the way Malfoy looked at Potter, as they continued to make their way across the entrance hall, the polished marble floor reflecting their forms.

It was that look, that look he'd seen from time to time on some of the faces of his fellow students back at Hogwarts.

Infatuation.

Malfoy liked the hero of the wizarding world. And he was trying to hide it.

Sliding his eyes back to Potter who examined every corner of the hall, shoulders stiff once again, Tom imagined that even if Malfoy shouted it out in the open, Potter wouldn't notice.

Potter had no clue.

Well, it suited Tom just fine, since the very idea of this pathetic boy or someone else gagging for Potter's attention was slightly insulting. Dark anger coiled around him.

“I'll let my house-elf prepare tea, if that's alright.” Malfoy was leading them to one of the sitting rooms, but Potter made an awkward gesture with his hand.

Throwing a look at Tom, Potter considered his words. “Actually, I don't think it will take that long, right?”

“Indeed,” Tom said, approaching the Malfoy heir and offering his hand. “My name is Tom-”

“Peverell,” Potter finished, quickly, a flash of panic coursing through him, before his green eyes darkened in warning. Watching Harry like that, seeing him poised to strike, to challenge him again...

It felt invigorating.

They'd still need to discuss the sudden name change, though.

Malfoy, for all his weaknesses, didn't swallow the lie, if his expression was anything to go by. But he didn't say anything either, accepting Potter's words without question once again.

“We just wanted to ask, if your family's portrait gallery still exists,” Potter tried again, smoothing things over.

Malfoy glanced between them, blinking. “Of course, it does. But why would you-”

“Brilliant.” Potter interrupted, not even looking abashed. “We just need to speak with your grandfather Abraxas Malfoy. It'll only take a few minutes.”

If it had been anyone else, Tom would've never tolerated letting him speak out of turn. Malfoy just sighed, tired; most likely having endured Potter's cheek on more than one occasion.

Staring at them closely, the evidence lied in Malfoy's submission. The Boy Who Lived must have been holding something over the blonde's head to make a Malfoy hold his tongue.

Tom could take a good guess. Life debts usually haunted people for the rest of their lives.

“Alright, Potter. If that's all you want.” Malfoy shrugged and redirected his steps towards the massive marble staircase, with Potter following him without hesitation.

And as Tom ascended the staircases, walking slightly behind them, he tugged experimentally at the blood magic holding Harry and him together. Potter's slouched form shifted, unease dripping from him.

It wouldn't be long now.

Brushing a strand of dark hair away, Tom lowered his gaze, smiling. He'd just discovered another glaring flaw in Potter's decision making. Mainly that the boy tended to rush into things without thinking it through.

Abraxas Malfoy's portrait would remember Tom. And he'd undoubtedly tell his grandson everything he needed to know, leaving Potter's charade in broken pieces.

Once word got out and spell between them vanished, Harry Potter would no longer be the only one confronted with the reality of a Dark Lord in their midst.

 

* * *

 

Clocks on every available surface cluttered the office. Eleanor liked to call it the office behind the office, since it was hidden behind a carefully constructed illusion. Not many were allowed to enter this place and even less people retained their memories of it. Eleanor was proud she could call herself amongst those who were trusted, those who were close to him. Undersecretary Titonius Baine. With his obsessive need to collect Muggle and magical clocks, the man almost rivaled Minister Shacklebolt and his Muggle music collection. The difference between them was simple.

Baine liked to control, to harness power. The Minister, however, just wanted to contain it. Contain those who possessed it.

Closing the door behind her, Eleanor took a moment to just let it all sink in. The smoky, heavy-scented air, tainted by a wooden smell, old parchment collecting dust. The chandelier casting flickering light across the space, the white curtains, appearing yellow inside the dimly lit room. And the constant ticking.

It was all so very much like him. And she liked that, too.

She liked that he could raise this safe haven from the ground, away from the authorities who lived close by.

Raising her arm to her chest, Eleanor did the customary greeting, before addressing her superior. He didn't even need to see this. It was so second nature to her.

Baine was leaning his head against the back of the chair, sitting with his body turned toward the small fireplace. His white, braided hair contrasted with midnight blue robes, hiding away the weathered form of a man as old as the late Albus Dumbledore.

“I hope you have a good reason for your untimely visit, my dear,” he rasped, keeping his back turned.

Swallowing hard, she tried to keep her anxiety to a minimum. “I apologize sir. It's just that I've seen Harry Potter at the ministry today.”

Thin hands curled around the armrests. “And why is that so unusual?”

Eleanor tried not to smile. He'd like the next part.

“He was accompanied by Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

The silence seized the room, but outwardly Baine didn't react to her words; He was a man of small gestures, preferring to let few words and more actions speak for themselves.

“So it worked then,” Baine said, tilting his head forward.

Eleanor bowed. “It did. But now they must be in possession of the necklace. I was hoping the young Malfoy heir wouldn't recognize it, but...”

“He wouldn't. And dear Abraxas won't remember either,” the Undersecretary confirmed. “You should have never involved young Draco in this.”

It was too late for apologies. Eleanor lowered herself even further, every inch of her screaming submission. It was true. Now that Potter was in possession of the necklace, involving the Malfoy heir has become obsolete. Perhaps even dangerous in light of Potter's and Riddle's apparent stalemate.

“Shall we proceed, as planned?” she asked. “The McKeon boy is ready.”

Rising to his feet, Titonius steadied himself with one hand against the chair. “You have two hours. Make it count.”

Sensing the abrupt end to the conversation, Eleanor turned toward the door. But there was still one question lingering just at the forefront.

“Do you think Potter will appear?” she breathed, twisting the handle.

Their plan hinged upon Potter's rebellion and moreover his actions after that; after their diversion. Making it believable to the law enforcement and especially the public was vital.

“Everyone needs a hero,” the Undersecretary voiced, dismissing her with a hand gesture.

He was right. Excitement doused her and Eleanor couldn't wait to see it all play out.

 

* * *

 

His first proper mission involved active combat against enemies who didn't have ugly snake tattoos branded on their skin. There were no ambitions for world domination stamped into their brains. No noses missing. No demands, no real purpose.

Until now.

Whenever the Aurors captured one of these bastards, nothing came out of it. It's like they would just wake up from their long sleep and confess to nothing, not able to remember anything at all.

Civilians. Rather unremarkable witches and wizards, all of them with a Muggle background. But it was confirmed that most had swallowed several doses of something, before acting out; attacking others at random places near the entrances to Muggle London. That kind of thing. It had been going on for quite a while, but was never considered so serious as to alarm the general public.

Ron didn't imagine Auror life turning into a chase for Potions addicts or whatever these people were. Catching Death Eaters, Dark wizards or just regular thieves. That's what he'd signed up for and what he trained for all this time.

Not this.

Interrogating people under some sort of influence didn't sound like regular Auror business either. Robards had revealed that some of them were civilians who have been reported missing.

Honestly, it all kind of freaked him out a little bit.

"Weasley, Brand. You go with Robards."

Ron swallowed hard, wiping his clammy palms against his robe.

Robards called up their unit and they stepped forward, joining the small crowd as one of the last ones.

"Alright, everyone. Wands at the ready," the stern-faced head Auror commanded. "What we're dealing with is unprecedented. This is a hostage situation."

His partner shuffled his feet and not for the first time Ron wished that Harry was with him. He could rely on his friend. Brand was a complete berk.

"Trainees will remain at the back. No fighting until we've secured the perimeter. And no rushing in, got it?" Robards barked, eyeing one of the senior Aurors sternly.

"You reckon it'll be like one of those Muggle movies? With explosives and all that?" his partner mumbled, ducking his head when the older trainees threw him annoyed looks.

“Dunno.” Ron shrugged. He just wanted to get this over with. And once he did, he'd have stern talk with his best mate about keeping secrets. It's been so obvious back then, when he met Harry in the Atrium, accompanied by a creepy bloke who kept staring at him weirdly.

Harry had been nervous about something.

And Ron would find out what it was, to make sure that his friend wasn't pulling another one of his I-have-to-do-this-alone stunts.

But first...

Taking out his wand, they marched forward as one, until everyone began to Disapparate. Letting his magic pull him forward, Ron focused, reappearing back where the coordinates had taken him.

To the outskirts of Diagon Alley, far up north where no one even bothered to shop for anything.

Frowning, he took in the hectic scene, recognizing the building they were now standing in front of.

What the...?

The attackers outside the ministry had abruptly disappeared, drawing some Aurors away. Now, eerie silence hung over everyone's heads, as they inspected the damage. Bodies were lying near the front door, covered in debris and shattered glass.

Nervously, Ron's eyes tracked as the hit wizards reinforced the Anti-Apparition wards and monitoring charms.

The attackers had already barricaded themselves inside and with dread Ron looked up, every inch of the limestone building screaming familiarity.

It was the Conservatorium. The pride of every Magizoologist in London.

He'd been here before, had visited this place just last year, attending the opening ceremony together with Harry and Hermione, though all three of them hadn't been particularly excited to do so. According to dad, the Conservatorium was similar to a Muggle museum , displaying dead, excavated animals or extinct species.

Since then, not many people had taken to this place, not interested in the ancestors of Flobberworms and the like. Still, two of his friends worked here.

Luna and Seamus.

Ron searched everyone's faces again. Another group of civilians were huddled together in a corner opposite them. They were being treated by a Mediwitch of their units and even from his position he could clearly see the blood staining their clothes and the worried and pained expression everyone was wearing. Merlin, if something had happened...

It took a while but eventually his eyes landed on a figure slowly advancing forward, pushing past the protesting hit wizards and heading straight for Ron.

He sighed in relief. Bloody hell. Seamus was alive, but from the way he was limping, his wounds hadn't been treated yet.

“I've done something stupid,” Seamus called, ignoring Brand who was glaring at him. Ron couldn't leave his position, couldn't let himself get distracted right now. Even Robards wasn't taking it well, but he let his friend through.

“Wouldn't be the first time now, would it, mate?” He kept his wand pointed at the building, but their team leaders were still trying to contact the people inside. It would take a while before they stormed it.

“They let me go, Ron.” Holding his arm awkwardly, Seamus waved in the general direction, scrunching up his face. “They just let me go,” he whispered, clearly on the verge of panic. “And I didn't know what to do. I just freaked out and then,”

“What?” Ron asked, just as panicked. Luna wasn't here.

“I used the coins,” the Irish boy explained, pained. “My DA coin. I called Harry.”

Oh fucking hell.

“They're after him, aren't they?” Ron questioned, dread rising inside him. “It's a trap.”

“For Potter?” Brand's voice was too loud, catching the attention of several Aurors who turned to look at them curiously. “What's he got to do with this?”

But Ron didn't hear him, the rush of fear sending his heart into overdrive. “Where's Luna?” he asked tentatively.

Seamus only shook his head, as he gazed at the destroyed entrance, his silence telling them everything. She was still in there.

 

* * *

 

" _Muffliato_ ," Harry cast, making sure that Malfoy was staying outside the bubble. The following conversation was something he'd rather keep private. From the way the blonde sneered at them, it wasn't something he took lightly anyway. But they didn't have much time, unfortunately.

Harry sensed it. Every second that went by, Tom's magic kept pushing at the blood ward keeping them contained in one place. For now, the Dark Lord would feel compelled to follow Harry everywhere, but that command would wane with time. It was frustrating to feel all that strength, all that power directed at him once again, but Harry was stubborn. He'd keep the bastard contained for as long as possible.

And get some useful answers in the process.

Abraxas Malfoy's portrait was located on the third floor, near the end of a corridor purely designed to impress anyone passing through. Even his frame wasn't the standard gold one would expect; but instead made out of some material that appeared to be glass, but wasn't.

Approaching it warily, Harry felt Riddle's eyes on his back at all times. And Draco wasn't standing far away either, despite not being able to hear anything. He'd still deduce certain things from the way Harry talked and Tom behaved around him. Damn Slytherins.

“Lord Malfoy,” Harry called, staring up at the frame near the end of a long row. All portraits were sleeping right now, or pretending to. The heavy-set brow of the deceased Malfoy patriarch merely twitched when Harry addressed him.

He was about to try again, when suddenly grey eyes snapped open, blinking slowly, before they fixated on him.

“I recognize you,” Abraxas mumbled, scanning Harry from head to toe. It was distinctly uncomfortable and the stare reminded him of Lucius and the disdainful way he used to look at him.

But Harry wouldn't be intimidated by another dead man. Steeling his resolve, Harry returned the man's hard stare.

“Lord Malfoy, I'm here to ask a few questions.”

Abraxas peered down at him from his vantage point. “Harry Potter, isn't it? Would recognize the hair anywhere. Or bird's nest.” The old man smirked, self-satisfied.

Harry's mouth flattened, the need to make himself look more presentable a familiar feeling, although it wasn't necessary. He didn't give a damn what these poncy purebloods thought.

“Sir-,”

“This house never hears the end of it,” Abraxas continued, undeterred. “It's always Potter this and Potter that. Why, Draco just can't stop talking about you. And the Dark Lord used to-”

Abraxas trailed off, catching something over Harry's shoulder. Or rather someone. His mouth fell open and if a portrait could pale, Harry was probably witnessing it now. Jaw slack, Abraxas gaped at Tom.

“Hello, my friend,” the Dark Lord greeted smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I'd say it's been a while, but for me that's not exactly accurate. You on the other hand...”

The way he spoke, the way Tom could command everyone to listen. It was a sight to behold and Harry swallowed down his apprehension.

The wizard could switch back and forth between observing and letting himself be observed, if it suited him. Tom was both shadow and light, in a way. And Harry envied him for it, envied Tom for the ability to draw peoples' eyes away from himself.

"This is impossible." The portrait's voice sounded hoarse. The old wizard pressed himself against the front of his canvas, as if he could escape it. "They say you died. Potter here, he killed you. Are you-"

Tom shifted on his feet, a hint of warning radiating off of him and making Abraxas still.

"As much as I would like to discuss the impossibility of my existence, we have more pressing matters to attend to," Tom said.

On cue, Harry took a hold of the chain around his neck, pulling out the necklace. The orb dangled in front of his face, catching the surrounding light and drawing Harry's eye to it. It felt warm, although he hadn't even touched it yet.

From the corner of his eyes, he spotted Draco making a small sound, briefly distracting Harry.

"I recall a letter being sent to me, on Samhain, 1950, bearing your signature. It proclaimed that the artifact you're seeing right now belonged to your family," the young Lord continued.

"Have you seen this before?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes at Abraxas. Tom hadn't told him nearly as much as Draco's grandfather.

Pressing his lips together, the old wizard frowned, taking a while to inspect the necklace. Even now, even years later the man didn't want to disobey Voldemort or disappoint him in any way. It startled Harry a bit, since he'd only come in contact with two Malfoys who hadn't been as steadfast in their loyalty to him. His younger self must've inspired more of it back then.

"No," Abraxas replied. "Can't say that I have, my Lord." Looking at Tom, the blonde was obviously confused about something.

"I don't recall ever sending you a gift like that in the 50's. I would remember."

"Obviously." Tom dismissed him, seemingly more pleased with the answer than Harry. Why? They hadn't gotten anything out of the man.

“We'll be on our way then.” Tom turned around and promptly broke the muffling spell Harry had cast on them. Abraxas wasn't stupid to ask any more questions or to hold him back. And unfortunately Harry couldn't think of anything. Besides, the Malfoy Lord had for all intents and purposes been telling the truth. He wouldn't lie to his master.

And with that realization, Harry pivoted on his feet, catching Draco's eyes. Yes, his grandfather wouldn't lie to Draco either. Not about this. Which meant Tom had been enjoying Harry's fumbling attempts to keep all of this a secret. Damn him.

"Already done?" Draco asked, pointing at the necklace Harry was tucking back underneath his shirt. "If it's about that, I can tell you that I've seen that orb."

Startled, Harry approached Malfoy, not having expected that. "You have? Where?"

Beside him, Tom barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

In any case, it was a testament to how far they've come that Draco wasn't even asking for anything in return. Shrugging, he offered his knowledge for free instead.

"Undersecretary Baine's assistant was asking for it. She showed me a picture," he added, glaring at Tom's back. The man had already decided to leave their company, heading for the entrance hall and expecting Harry to follow like a good little minion.

It pissed him off.

"You're in contact with Baine?" Harry hadn't known that. Baine was a bit notorious in that he rarely ventured outside and mostly kept to himself, keeping his assistant Larke on a short leash. It had always amused Kingsley for some reason. But then, Baine and the Minister were old friends.

Malfoy scoffed, crossing his arms. “I started to work for him. Bit of a weird guy, if you ask me.”

Huh, that was new.

“Look, Potter,” Malfoy began. “If there's something about him you need to tell me-”

“I got it.” Harry held Malfoy's gaze, understanding. “You don't want to work for someone who's got issues. Not after the war.”

Malfoy's family was still in a precarious position, their standing in wizarding Britain far from perfect. If Draco got caught working for someone who was conducting dubious affairs, the fallout would be even worse for him. And his mother. She was the only thing left, the only one he truly cared about.

Harry wouldn't let anything happen to them. Not if he could prevent it.

Reaching out, he touched Malfoy's shoulder. “I'll let you know. But there's something else you need to be aware of.” Throwing the portrait another look, Harry bit his lips. “Your grandfather will tell you everything. Just, just don't do anything about it.”

It would be a lie to say Harry had everything under control. And that's why he left it at that. Malfoy nodded, mute.

The sudden awkwardness that sprung up between them caught Harry off guard. And Malfoy's stare, the intensity of it was hard to explain. Harry dropped his hand.

“Any day now, Potter.”

Tom was still standing by the staircase, one hand on the railing. Looking up, he caught the man's blinding fury, before it was masked by the usual impassive expression.

Harry followed him, not the least bit intimidated. He was furious enough for them both. Reaching the entrance hall, they left the manor quietly, the silence between them not unusual, but not as easy to digest either.

The pathway led to the gates, which opened as they approached.

“If you've got something to say, just say it,” Harry began, tired of it all. He didn't need Tom's mood swings on top of his own. “Or just tell me what you found out.”

“I'm not surprised you didn't manage to put two and two together.” Tom quickened his steps, staring ahead. “It's obvious why Abraxas doesn't remember any of it.”

Harry frowned, crossing the shimmering wards and feeling them snap back into place. “Because Voldemort didn't either,” he murmured.

That could be the case. If Malfoy Senior remembered giving the necklace to him, then Voldemort would've remembered traveling to the future in his 20's, meeting Harry. The war would've turned out differently in that case.

“You forget the second option,” Tom said, unfazed. "My follower could have been Obliviated by someone. He didn't need to send me that gift; neither this one, nor the Abraxas Malfoy from the past. Any knowledge he possessed of the artifact must have been reason enough to make sure he didn't have that anymore."

Lips parted, Harry stopped. If that were the case…

...the one behind it was able to travel through time. Portraits couldn't be Obliviated after all. Harry would have done it, otherwise.

"But Voldemort could have lost his memory as well," Harry mused, doubtful. It was logical to assume that Larke was behind this whole mess, though. Harry had not forgotten the moment she first laid her eyes on Tom, recognition dawning on her. And it was Eleanor Larke who had asked about that necklace, from what Draco had implied.

“Unlikely.” Tom stopped as well, facing Harry. “I have ways of protecting myself against memory altering charms.”

'But not against time travel, moron,' Harry thought privately. Though it was unlike Tom to boast so openly about his abilities.

“It's time we pay the assistant a visit, don't you think?” the young Dark Lord asked.

Standing here, just outside Malfoy manor, Harry couldn't help but hold still, watching the man closely. Despite his anger, despite the constant taunts, Harry thought there was something eerie yet beautiful about Tom Riddle. Sinister. And captivating.

Harry felt himself flush.

Tom fit into the scenery, as if painted right into it. Or perhaps the trees and the snow-covered ground have been bending to his will all the time, making the Dark Lord stand out even more.

The cool wind picked up around them, winter casting its unforgiving ice like a spell. Snowflakes drifted down, catching on Harry's eyelashes and making him blink.

Tom's hair was neatly parted at the side, but a wayward strand here and there fell into his eyes, which were still fixated on Harry.

“I'm not your follower,” Harry breathed into the silence, eyes falling shut. “I'm not one of your minions you can command at will, Tom.”

Who was Harry trying to convince here?

Curling his hands into fists, green eyes snapped open. “As long as the spell is intact, you're going to do what I want you to do. Not the other way round.”

It was obvious that Harry's words fell on deaf ears. Tom's smile was fleeting, but it told him everything.

“As you wish, Harry.”

The words made something twist painfully inside his chest. Since when did Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter become Tom and Harry?

And why was that so exhilarating?

Thankfully, Harry was saved from his thoughts, when the familiar humming of his DA coin suddenly acted up, alerting him to a message.

He hadn't used that thing in ages, but Harry still searched his pockets for it, disregarding Tom who was patiently waiting for him.

The message was from Seamus.

And as he tried to make sense of it, everything else suddenly fell apart.

Harry paled, staring at the coin in disbelief.

Luna?


	6. Separation

He’d expected chaos, screaming, people running around and more importantly Aurors trying to do something.

Not this.

Upon arriving, Harry and Tom maintained their distance to the crowd, watching everyone from afar, though in Tom’s case it was only done out of disinterest and slight annoyance for having been dragged into this.

Observing the Aurors and more importantly Gawain Robards, Harry could tell that the law enforcement didn’t have the situation under control. As usual.

Instead, they were following protocol or what Harry assumed must be the standard protocol for hostage situations. That means holding your position, establishing contact with the enemy and keeping said enemy talking.

Anti-Apparition wards shimmered, invisible to the naked eye but strong enough for Harry to sense all around him. He’d just have to take a few steps and then he would be inside, just as trapped.

The unnatural stillness around them, the waiting, the anticipation for violence led to his decision. Luna was still in there, with Merlin knows what kind of people.

And Robards was just standing around, ordering his unit to hold back. What kind of rescuing mission was this supposed to be? And moreover, why did Shacklebolt and everyone else feel the need to keep this a secret from Harry? Evidently, these attackers were more brutal than that. More brutal than Ron had described initially.

Standing across the street, he could still see bodies blocking the entrance to the Conservatorium. And the mediwitches and wizards weren’t even trying to check on them. What the hell?

“It’s obviously a trap,” Tom said, not even bothering to draw his wand.

“I don’t care.” Wrapping his winter robe closer around his body, Harry's eyes were drawn to the windows on the second floor. Curtains had been closed in this area. Nowhere else.

“Maybe you don’t,” the young Dark Lord shot back, irate. “But you’ve dragged me into this, unprepared mind you. I don’t exactly fancy going into battle with a wizard, who at the earliest sign of trouble decides to throw away his life for his little friends.”

Raising his eyebrows, Harry looked at him. “Don’t tell me you’re worried, Tom?”

“For myself? No.” Tom made another sound, derision blatant. “You on the other hand…” he trailed off.

“Sweet. You care that much about me?”

Tom's sneer became more prominent.

Taking a few steps forward, Harry inclined his head towards Ron who’d already spotted them. His best friend looked alarmed. But if the Aurors didn’t feel the need to do anything, Harry would do it.

He crossed the wards, alerting the hit wizards. And then he started to run, well aware of the smooth, almost silent steps following right behind him. The strain on his magic kept going up, but rescuing Luna mattered more than this. It would always matter more than anything Tom did.

Shouting could be heard, calls of ‘Potter’ and ‘No, Harry.’

But he was undeterred by it all, focusing his energy on reaching the tiny entrance to the basement, at the back. He almost stumbled over pieces of brick stones and had to force himself to move to the left, closer to the walls, as spells were hurled at him. Great, now they were doing something.

He reached the small window first, shattering the glass with a wave of his wand. Both of them would barely be able to fit through, but it was enough to get inside the basement.

His feet landed on hard ground, as glass cut into his robe. Tom was right behind him, and the man cast a complicated spell that would keep the hit wizards and Aurors away from this small entrance. For now.

“They're on the second floor,” Harry said. A Point-Me wouldn't work, but it was more likely that whatever these people wanted, they would first search it out in the offices of the Conservatorium, where Luna and Seamus usually went to. Where they kept all the valuable paperwork.

Keeping his wand pointed upward, he crouched down low, withdrawing a small object from his pocket. Behind him, Tom kept watching Harry, interested despite himself.

The tiny, crystallized ball, rolled over the ground, black smoke rising quickly and sneaking past the closed door. It would locate any notable enemies nearby, turning the ball bright red in this case. George's invention worked flawlessly and Harry sighed in relief, when the ball didn't change colors.

“Interesting object you have there,” Tom commented. “Enchanted coins, infinite handbags. And now this.”

Harry smirked. “You don't even know the half of it.”

What Harry would have done to use his invisibility cloak now. Sadly, it was at home.

Suddenly, the yew wand was pointed directly in his face and Harry's eyes widened, only to see the non-verbal spell hitting someone behind him.

What the?

“Do try to pay attention, Harry,” Tom whispered, glancing down. “He was under a Disillusionment charm.”

Whirling around, he stared at the unconscious attacker, seeing only a man dressed in Muggle clothes, slumped on the ground. He didn't look like much. Why hadn't George's invention worked on him?

Riddle was fast, though.

Catching a movement behind Tom's shoulder, Harry raised his own wand. And another person went down, the Disillusionment fading away to reveal a thin woman, her glassy eyes falling shut.

“So was yours,” he replied, smiling at Tom's reaction. He hadn't seen her.

Other than that, Harry was surprised that they only kept two people down here. There should have been more attackers. More guards waiting for them.

Harry didn't want to kill anyone and he would try to prevent Tom from doing it, unless one of these people threatened to kill Luna.

How many were there?

It was hard to tell, but all they could do is keep their eyes open. Tiptoeing across the room, Harry reached the staircase first, casting a minor detection charm to see if that area held any nasty surprises for them.

No one followed them. And the spell came up with nothing, which made it all seem too easy.

Tom had been right. It was a trap. But for whom? And for what purpose?

The narrow steps led to the second floor and the eerie silence around this place made it difficult to breathe. Harry frowned, reconsidering. Maybe, just maybe he should have talked to Ron first. Maybe they should turn around.

“ _Sententis Ex_ ,” Harry murmured, waving his wand in the general direction of the offices. Even this minor spell drained Harry's strength much faster than normal. Not for the first time, he cursed binding Riddle to himself. He should have just let the man rot in that cellar.

“The Aurors will be joining us soon, I believe,” Tom said, looking behind them.

“What? Can't even keep your ward up for longer than this?”

But Tom ignored him, instead focusing on the door at the end of the corridor. Skilled as he was, he could probably sense how many people were occupying this place. Harry wouldn't know. But he'd be damned if he started to rely on Riddle's expertise.

“These people aren't acting on their own.” Tapping his wand twice against the wall, Tom's eyes narrowed in concentration. “They've been drugged at some point,” he concluded.

Well, that made everything so much easier. Not.

That witch lying on the ground. She had looked completely out of it, which meant none of these attackers were doing it willingly. It disturbed Harry, since he needed to duel people who were victims themselves.

He was about to cast another detection charm when something slammed into his back, making Harry fall forward.

Tom's sharp intake of breath was enough warning. They were being surrounded.

Harry fell on his hands, the painful throbbing sensation shooting through his wrist. He barely managed to keep his wand in his hand. But the attacker rolled them over and it was only Tom's precise spellcasting that managed to blast the man away from Harry without causing more injury.

How considerate.

Groaning, he tried to get back on his feet. And then he saw it. A sharp green light careened towards Tom, but he was holding off two other people who'd come after him, his dark magic crackling fiercely, overpowering them easily. But not seeing this.

Why wasn't he reacting? Surely, someone like Tom Riddle would...

“Watch out!” Harry cried, but it was too late. Tom raised his wand, eyes wide, and Harry acted on instinct. Ignoring the pain, he jumped up, tackling them both to ground as the spell flew right over their heads, almost brushing Harry's ear.

“Don't kill them,” someone cried, and Harry swallowed, covering Tom's body with his own.

Another attacker suddenly yanked at his hair, making Harry grit his teeth, but he didn't let go. Couldn't. For some reason.

For some reason it was vital to put himself between these people and Riddle. And Harry was going mad, without a doubt.

“Keep them alive!” a male voice roared, making the others still. Blinking, Harry turned his head slightly, but the only thing he could see for a second was the disbelief flashing through Tom's dark eyes. Disbelief and something unrecognizable.

Breathing in his face, the young Dark Lord tried to push Harry away.

“Sir, we already got what we came for,” a woman murmured behind them.

Hoisting himself upward, Harry bent his head, counting the number of people. There were too many. But the one single thing that made his heart stop was the man, evidently the leader of this mission, dragging Luna forward by her hair. It was the same man who'd ordered everyone not to kill them.

Merlin. Luna. She was bleeding, a deep gash on her cheek. The sight alone brought Harry back to his senses; and not caring what happened to him, only seeing his friend like this made something inside him snap.

Harry snarled, raising his wand and pointing it at the bastard. Drugged or not, he was going to pay.

But then, the man let her go, pushing her toward Harry in a forceful move. Instantly, Harry's arms encircled her protectively, but he still kept his wand up, ready to cast. Luna was breathing heavily, clearly forcing herself to stay awake and that alone made it easier to disregard that these people were under an influence.

“You're so very predictable, Harry Potter,” the 'leader' said calmly, bored. His pupils were dilated and there was an unhealthy flush to him, staining his hollowed cheeks and making the man look ill. He too was dressed in Muggle clothes. “We had so many loved ones to choose from. And you'll always come running, no matter what. It's your greatest weakness, boy.”

“That and his stubborn need to sacrifice himself,” the woman commented, making several people laugh.

Tom was oddly silent.

“The Aurors must have broken the ward,” another attacker said and Harry heard it too. Footsteps approached them quickly.

As soon as he turned back towards the leader, the man tilted his head and then everyone around them reached for something inside their pockets.

Portkeys.

In the next second, the corridor was empty, not a trace of anyone left.

What on earth had just happened? Angry and confused, Harry lowered himself to his knees, brushing Luna's hair away gently as he adjusted his grip on her. She was still conscious, but her eyes were staring ahead, focusing on the only other person in the corridor.

“That's my cue,” said Tom suddenly, standing tall again. With a flick of his wand, one of the door leading to the offices was blast open and he began to walk away.

Wait a minute. What?

“You're leaving.” The words spread through Harry's awareness, clearing up his earlier confusion.

Tom had only complied with Harry tonight, because he had wanted Harry to exhaust himself to the point of breaking the blood ward. And it had worked. Even without Harry noticing in the heat of the battle.

The ward was gone, having held for hours, not an entire week as Harry had initially counted on. And Tom was now free to do whatever he wanted.

Harry's hand reached out, quickly searching for the necklace, which should have been on him. It wasn't.

Tom stood at the threshold, his back to him. His own hand curled around a silver chain, letting the orb dangle between his fingers.

Horrified, Harry watched it, watched it swing back and forth, almost hypnotizing him.

“I'll be taking this with me.” The man looked tense, holding himself in a way that was unfamiliar to Harry. Tom Riddle was never on the defense. Not around him.

“It's mine to begin with.”

“Wait,” Harry called, panicked.

“Why should I?” The footsteps echoed off the walls and someone was already running up the staircase. Tom still didn't turn around, only letting his voice carry over, sounding frustrated.

“It's not like you were of any help. On the contrary.”

Holding Luna closer to him, Harry searched for something to say, anything, really. “You wanted to know what brought you here. To this timeline. You want to know more about the link. If you go-”

“Goodbye, Harry Potter.” Tom's words were final, shutting down any protests, any attempts to hold him back.

Harry should have kept him locked up. No compromises.

“Before I forget.” Tom cocked his head, looking over his shoulder. His eyes were so full of loathing that Harry had trouble breathing. Fear caught up with him. Fear of him. He hadn't felt it in years.

“Never confuse me with one of your friends, Potter. I'm not here to be saved by you of all people.”

And with that he left, not looking back again; leaving Harry alone with Luna. The Boy Who Lived didn't even have time to wonder how Riddle would escape, with the Anti-Apparition wards still intact. Four Aurors barged into the corridor, taking a good look at the two, before casting spells to look for more attackers and hostages.

Robards wasn't far behind. And as soon as their eyes met, Harry wanted to lower his head, shame-faced, knowing he'd messed up.

Robards' face was pale with fury.

It was Luna who spoke up, though. Bringing Harry back to the here and now.

“He won't be gone forever, Harry,” she whispered in his ear. “He won't abandon you again. Not after tonight.”

She knew it was Voldemort...

Looking up, her expression was serene, as composed as ever. Harry envied her for it. Wanted to be able to clear his head and focus. The panic never receded.

Luna smiled.

“You shouldn't have come. But now that you did, the both of you are in this together.”

 

* * *

 

“You interfered during an active investigation,” Kingsley said. Sitting across from him, Harry didn't let his earlier bout of shame take a hold of him. To be honest, with Luna and the other hostages safe, Harry had trouble reconsidering his actions.

So he just continued to sit in silence, letting Kingsley's words wash over him.

“You had no authority over the Aurors. Your actions endangered the hostages inside the building and I can't let this go unpunished.”

Closing his eyes, he breathed in slowly.

Punishment? He'd been punished enough already. Besides, he was wasting his time in this office. There was someone out there feeding potions and other substances to unsuspecting civilians, making them attack people.

Not to mention another Dark Lord on the run.

He was so bloody tired of the constant explanations and apologies he had to make. It never stopped, it never changed. People never listened.

“Without me, she would have died,” said Harry.

Kingsley didn't look impressed.

“When I found Luna, one of them was holding a wand to her head. And the Aurors were still arguing whether they had any hostages at all.”

“Harry-,”

“No, don't start,” Harry forced out. Kingsley was the same as everyone else in Harry's life. Too busy interfering. Not helping in the slightest. He was sick of it. Sick of the secrecy.

Everyone should know by now that Harry hated nothing more than being kept in the dark; nevermind the fact they kept saying it was for his own protection. Ridiculous.

Harry could acknowledge that hiding away from the world had been his fault alone. But nobody ever called unless Harry was needed for something. Kingsley certainly hadn't. Even Ron kept saying how Harry shouldn't worry. Should just relax or whatever.

“You told me that I should fight for the wizarding world,” he forced out. “Well, I'm doing it, alright? Since no one bothered to tell me.”

Kingsley's eyes flashed and the man was visibly struggling to reign in his temper. “You are taking matters into your own hands. You're overriding the decisions of my law enforcement.”

“Because they're still useless,” Harry snarled, suddenly furious. “Don't you remember how they abandoned us during the war? You were one of the only ones not hiding away like a coward.”

The Minister didn't even blink.

“I won't have you disparaging the department, Harry. I suggest you tone it down.”

Harry was startled into a laugh and he slowly rose to his feet, having heard enough.

“You want to change the wizarding world, Minister?” he asked, turning around. It was funny. Infuriating, but funny to see what power did to people. It twisted them or broke them completely. Made them unrecognizable.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry Potter. One man had learned to abide by the law as long as it remained in his hands. The other had been led down by it. Again and again.

They didn't understand each other anymore.

Harry eyed the man narrowly. “Then I suggest you stop playing by their rules. Rules didn't get me anywhere during the war or even before that. Breaking them did.”

“The war is over!” the wizard all but broke out, his gaze imploring.

_Not for me. It's not over for me._

Not with the specter of Voldemort chaining Harry to him again. Never letting him forget.

Kingsley remained sitting, perhaps sensing that they wouldn't be getting anywhere with this. Not tonight, at least. Perhaps never.

“I'm done here.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting anyone to see him like this. Not wanting to see the Minister's expression.

Walking out, he closed the door behind him, ignoring the curious onlookers standing outside. With the silencing charms in place, they hadn't heard any of this, but going by Harry's expression, everyone would be able to guess.

He needed to go home.

As soon as the door fell shut, Kingsley's shoulder slumped.

He sighed heavily, massaging his temples. He needed a potion against the headache and perhaps some good old Firewhiskey.

That conversation with Harry only confirmed what Kingsley had suspected all along. The boy needed help. Perhaps even professional help from a healer. Clearly, the war was still raging inside him, turning the Potter heir into something unrecognizable.

Harry had always defended his loved ones even at the expense of his own mental and physical health. Albus had foreseen it, of course. And Kingsley thought following the man's footsteps when it came to Harry wouldn't hurt.

He trusted them both, after all. But the boy was missing structure and order in his life. He had no one to hold onto, since his best friends were too busy overcoming their own trauma.

Harry hadn't even started yet. In fact, Kingsley didn't think it was far-fetched to assume that a more hidden part inside the boy relished in it.

Trauma was punishment, after all. Especially when one would let it fester like Harry did. And the boy had always punished himself harder than anyone else. Holding onto moral standards while giving even his worst enemies more leeway with it.

It was admirable, but extremely unhealthy.

Kingsley would need to talk to Harry again, if only to help the boy cope. They were friends and that's all that mattered.

Casting _Tempus_ , the Minister frowned, realizing that his work was far from done and he still had reports to go through before he could call it a night.

Picking up his quill, he went back to work.

It could have been hours or minutes, though. He had too much on his mind to concentrate.

The hesitant knock on his door interrupted him from his musings and unlocking the door, he swiftly called the person inside.

To Kingsley's surprise, Harry was back, shuffling inside the office with his head down.

“Harry?” he asked, standing up. “Was there something else you needed?”

The bespectacled boy sighed, running a hand through his hair, clearly agitated about something. Well, if he wanted to talk, Kingsley would give him the time. There were so many things left unsaid.

“I couldn't leave like this. Not without apologizing,” Harry murmured, mouth forming a line. “What I did, it's- I shouldn't have behaved like this.”

Rounding the desk, Kingsley approached him. Laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, he smiled, offering the kind of comfort a parent would give to a child. Sometimes he did feel responsible for Harry, despite having only met him during his late formative years.

Out of all the people Kingsley knew, Harry was the person who deserved the best, after having gone through so much troubles in his life.

“It's fine,” he said. “I shouldn't have berated you the way I did. I can understand why you didn't trust the Aurors. Why you couldn't wait.” Kingsley swallowed. “Half the time, I don't think I can trust them either. There are still people out there...”

Confessing his own fears like that, it wasn't something he usually did. A Minister should be able to trust his government.

“People we can't trust,” Harry ended for him. “People who'd undermine your work, you mean.”

Kingsley nodded, defeated, briefly closing his eyes.

“People like me.”

The knife cut through skin with deadly precision. Kingsley didn't even have the time to react before he fell to the ground, blood spilling out of his mouth.

The second stab didn't even register on his mind, the shock, the pain too deep to comprehend anything else.

His throat was slit and he choked on his own blood, eyes bulging out.

A third one followed. And as Kingsley felt himself slipping, darkness overtaking his senses all he could see was the Boy Who Lived standing above him, victorious.

Harry stared at him intensely, lips twisted in a small smile, his green eyes bright with satisfaction.

The Minister of Magic was dead.


	7. Seduction

A quaint little home. But a far cry from the neat mansion that Tom had expected to see. He was in Dorset and for a minute he reconsidered this trip. Tracking down his remaining followers didn't look promising, especially when most of them, out of those that were alive, were in hiding.

And while he didn't have time to chase after the unwilling, there was something about Antonius Nott that reminded Tom of his past. The good old days at Hogwarts when politics was a game best played with people who had experience. Training. Proper breeding.

His old follower had chosen to reject the new world, just as expected. And from what Tom had discovered, Antonius had kept his distance to his other self, to Voldemort, not getting involved in the war too deeply, unlike his brother.

There was still young Theodore left, but the boy was useless, as most of this generation of purebloods was.

So here he was, walking the small pathway and inspecting the wilting flowers, the weeds growing uncontrolled, abandoned by the master of this house.

The wards had let Tom in, recognizing his magic, unlike the ones at Malfoy manor. It pleased him greatly. But at the same time, it reminded him of the events just days prior, the events leading to the visit in Wiltshire.

It reminded him of Potter. And that alone made this uncomfortable sensation inside his chest grow exponentially. Just as uncontrollable as the vegetation around this place.

Harry Potter. He truly couldn't escape him.

What was it about this boy, that made everything else seem so trivial in comparison?

Tom pressed his lips together forcefully, shoving the name aside. He needed to remain focused.

The wooden door opened at Tom's touch, but behind that, he was met with a face as unfamiliar as the sight that greeted him in the Muggle world.

Antonius looked old, his face lined with wrinkles and grey hair obscuring the gaunt lines of his cheekbones. His beard was neatly trimmed, though. And he took care of his appearance, despite the fact that there was neither money nor power left to the Nott family.

Nott stared at him as if he'd seen a vision. The reaction not unlike Malfoy's. But he didn't ask for explanations, didn't bother with handshakes or even a bow.

He just opened the door further and let him inside. His cane clanked against the floor, as the man continued to walk, not even stopping to see if Tom would follow him.

That was familiar. Same unshakable attitude.

Eventually, they reached the sitting room, unchanged by time, but faded like a blurred photograph in light of the many years that have passed since Tom's last visit.

“I would ask, but I think this story is just a little too complicated for my taste.” Antonius lowered himself on his seat, cringing at his own slow movements.

Tom took another seat, crossing his legs and watching as the man set aside his cane. “I'm pleased you're alive. And not faring bad either, all things considered.”

The smile his follower shot him was sardonic.

“My Lord,” he breathed, eyeing him. “You're still...you.”

“Who would I be, Antonius?” The question was redundant. They both knew. “Him?”

Antonius chuckled, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark. “If you were him, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

Probably true.

 “In fact, I'd be dead for daring to speak out of line. He never tolerated that and my brother never got the message,” the old man said, self-deprecating.

Tom considered him. “I'm not here to kill you, although you have all failed in many aspects.”

Indeed, most of the old crowd had dispersed quickly, some even abandoning Voldemort in the process.

Antonius waved his hand dismissively. “The war. We would have lost it anyway. It doesn't matter anymore. Not for me, at least.” He grinned. “Too old, too useless, and just plain tired these days.”

Tom realized that there was something else about mortal men he despised. Old people. They tended to become too self-aware, carrying around their weaknesses like a badge. Dumbledore had been a prime example of that.

Good to know _that man_ was gone forever.

“Not too tired for this, my friend,” Tom replied, turning serious. “I want you to do something for me.”

Antonius stiffened, wary. “Will you regroup then? Start another war, my Lord?”

Now that was out of line. Tom let the silence between them grow. He hated it when others made presumptions about his plans. Especially his followers. Showing just a hint of his true feelings was enough to make the older man cower.

“I apologize.”

Now that was better.

“Good,” Tom said, nodding, expression smoothing out. “Now, I need you to find someone and to bring her to me. You can use this house, if you like. But I'm giving you two weeks to bring me Eleanor Larke.”

Antonius frowned. “The ministry worker?”

“You won't fail in this, will you?” the young Dark Lord asked. “You're not too old for tracking someone down.”

The Nott patriarch bowed his head. “It will be done.”

Pleased, Tom leaned back in his seat, his thoughts already forming new plans.

“There's something else I need you to do,” he voiced, holding the man's gaze. Taking his wand out, he noted Nott's submission. The old man was quick to catch on.

“Let me see him. Let me see all of it from your perspective.”

And then he cast Legilimens, letting himself be pulled into his follower's unprotected mind. Memories and thoughts rushed past him, but Tom focused on the ones he wanted to see.

In the next instance, he was barraged with images of Lord Voldemort, with images of Voldemort's, no, _his_ power.

And his madness. His visage, his split pupils. His rage.

In those instances, a name flew from the man's lipless mouth over and over again.

Harry Potter.

It was all Lord Voldemort had managed to think about in those last years before the final battle.

Antonius hadn't seen most of it, since he kept away from the most important events. But it was enough to confirm the state of Voldemort's mind.

And now Tom was reliving the experience, feeling himself slipping, feeling his own mind echo with the name of his murderer.

He was riveted. Didn't want to be, but he was.

 

* * *

 

Bleary-eyed, Harry stumbled across the room, annoyed that the firecall had roused him from his sleep. These days, it became harder to even get a few minutes of rest. He had tossed and turned all night, wondering what Tom was doing, whether he was already on the path to self-destruction or not.

The only comfort Harry had taken before falling asleep was the fact that both Luna and Seamus were alive and recovering well.

When he closed his eyes, Harry could still hear Luna's words in his mind, though, clear and ominous.

Would he be back?

As for the Aurors.

Harry had no clue what they were doing, but hopefully it was useful and hopefully Ron would let him know how far the investigation had come along. Other than that, Harry could only wait. And that's what he hated the most.

The fireplace flared to life and Harry turned. It was Hermione.

She looked beside herself, searching every corner of the room until her frantic gaze landed on Harry. Her panic caught up with him and Harry stared at her, waiting for something, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Hermione's expression conveyed how serious it was. It reminded Harry of the war.

“Thank God, you're here,” she breathed out, staring at him wide-eyed.

Lowering himself to his knees, Harry inspected her closely. “What is it? What's going on?”

“You were not at the ministry this morning? It wasn't you, was it? And yesterday...” she babbled. Her panic increased tenfold, and with it Harry's unease.

“Alright, slow down. What happened?” he asked again.

Hermione's eyes became suspiciously wet. “I-, Harry. Did you read today's Prophet?”

Shaking his head, he bit his lips, beyond worried now. “No, I didn't get the chance. You know how late Kreacher usually is-”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt is dead.”

If there were words for how he felt right now, Harry might have been able to say something, to think past the sudden nothing that blanked his mind. All he could do was shake his head numbly. This must be one of his nightmares. And a more vivid one at that.

“They've, they've got Ron down at the interrogation rooms. They say-” Hermione forced out, holding her hands to her mouth as if she could take her previous words back. To make it all untrue.

But it was true.

She began to tremble all over. Harry half-wished he could feel just as much.

“This morning, they found Kingsley's body and,” she stopped, shaking her head again. “Not long after that, _you walked_ into the court room, confessing to everything. Under Veritaserum.”

What? He stared at her.

“They couldn't verify it properly,” Hermione continued. “He was stabbed to death. No use of magic. And your wand, the person confessed that his wand had snapped.”

Who would believe that? Who would even think Harry could do something like this. Everybody knew that Harry had been close to the Minister.

“It reached the press and people are talking now. You were being held captive. You confessed.”

“It wasn't me!” he hissed. “I wasn't there.”

Hermione nodded frantically, but the worry in her eyes never faded.

“Where you there, last night? His secretary confirmed that you were his last appointment and several Aurors saw you walk out of the office. You were angry.”

Unbelievable. He'd been set up, he'd been set up and played with like a fiddle. Harry gaped at her, the sudden bout of hysteria and anger a welcome sensation. He didn't want to feel that hollowness anymore. He'd just lost another friend. Even after the war.

“Hermione. Are you saying, that I...that I'd kill Kingsley?”

Her eyes widened at that, the horror evident. “No! No, Harry. Of course not. Please,” she begged. “Just let me through. Can you lower the wards, please?”

Harry didn't know how he managed to, but his focus returned and he let her through, ignoring the soot and dirt that covered his clothes the moment her arms encircled him.

Hugging back, he let himself feel. Around his friends, it was so much easier.

“He plead insanity, whoever it was,” Hermione murmured.

Harry felt certain pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “It was Baine.”

“The new Interim Minister?”

“He'd be the one gaining the most out of it,” said Harry, not wanting to go into detail just yet. Riddle was his problem. And maybe he would tell his friends. But not now.

Looking up at him, Hermione nodded firmly. “You need to go and prove that it wasn't you. Someone's walking around, using your name. You need to face him.”

“No, he needs to leave. Right now,” another voice interrupted. Relief overcame Harry, seeing Ron unharmed, although he seemed miffed about something. Maybe because he'd been held back like a common criminal.

Hermione hugged Ron immediately. Catching Harry's gaze, Ron's shoulders slumped, defeated.

“The Aurors are on their way,” he explained. “The bastard broke out of the holding cell. Official orders are to capture you, alive.” Ron grimaced.

“Let me guess. Some people would rather want me dead,” Harry shot back, not surprised in the slightest.

If the impostor managed to plead insanity, he was obviously angling for the whole Dark Lord image, wanting to make Harry look like an unstable, but power hungry wizard. It didn't help that Harry's status as a recluse just added to it.

Even with Harry's reputation, he knew that certain people would believe in that, would buy the story as long as Harry was dealt with. Fear of him is what drove these people.

“You can't just leave, Harry,” Hermione said. “It'll make you look guilty.”

Of course it would. But what could he do? And where would he go now?

She was right, though.

He wouldn't run. He wouldn't let himself be driven out of his home for something he hadn't even done. Harry would fix this.

Steeling his resolve, Harry turned and ran back to his room, ignoring his friends' cries. Throwing open his closet to search for his invisibility cloak, a small plan began to take form. Ron and Hermione were probably already thinking along certain lines, and his erratic behavior wasn't helping.

But there were things Harry needed to do by himself.

Hands reached out, grasping the material of the Hallow. And Harry could feel a new kind of determination driving him for once.

If he were to go down, he'd make sure that Baine or anyone involved in this would go down with him first. For Luna. For Kingsley. For reawakening Harry's nightmares and bringing Tom Riddle to this world.

And maybe even for himself.

 

* * *

 

Staring at his mirror image, strong hands touched a handsome face, tracing the jagged scar he'd cut into himself. Paul wished it was the real thing. But not even the strongest type of magic could imitate a curse scar like that. That's why he'd taken these drastic measures.

Other than the scar, Paul thought that those eyes were even better, shining with obsessive need, so expressive and oddly fitting for someone who never hid his feelings from anyone.

He'd been parading around as Harry Potter for two weeks now. From going to the ministry, to killing Shacklebolt, to confessing and then breaking out again with a little bit of help.

All of it made Potter look guilty in the eyes of the public, although Potter's most persistent fans and even most Hogwarts Alumni remained steadfast in their loyalty to him.

No matter. The rest of it was history or would be once he actually started executing people in public. Potter was doomed for Azkaban now, with hardly a trial leading up to it. It's what happened to people who killed someone as high-profile as the Minister of Magic.

With Potter out of the way, it would also allow Paul to start dismantling the Wizengamot from the inside out.

He could play more than just one role, after all.

Fingers curled around that jawline, went lower even. He couldn't help himself. Those memories of Potter, especially the ones from that Weasley girl were fueling Paul's fantasies.

Merlin, what he would give to touch the real Harry Potter like that.

He smiled faintly, not even hearing the other person entering the bathroom, until Eleanor's face showed up in the mirror.

“Here to give me my next mission?” he asked, not ashamed of his intimate exploration.

The witch walked forward, stopping short as soon as he turned toward her.

Maybe it was the light inside the bathroom that made her look oddly sinister, but she didn't react outwardly, just fixing him with a gaze, perhaps looking for flaws in the transformation.

Paul was tempted to spit at her feet, to show her what he really thought. Even she tended to look down upon him, disregarding his abilities. As if he could be anything less than perfect when it came to imitating Potter.

“You've been very useful, McKeon,” the woman began. “It's not everyday that one can fool even some of Potter's closest allies. You've done very well.”

“I'm just doing my job.” And making sure that no one doubted him again.

Disregarding her, he focused back on the mirror, testing out a few of Potter's typical expressions. Affection, boredom. Passion. So many things to choose from. So unlike the purebloods who still believed that masking one's emotion equaled sophistication. Fools.

“Not anymore.” Eleanor Larke smirked. He didn't have time to pull out his wand, before the killing curse hit him square in the chest.

Harry Potter's empty stare transformed slowly, the powerful Metamorphmagus ability fading quickly to reveal McKeon's real face.

Job well done, indeed.

With a swish, the corpse was set on fire and Eleanor walked out of the bathroom, recalling how those green eyes had glazed over, how death had claimed them. Death suited Potter well.

Eleanor Larke continued on her way, back to Baine's office.

She never made it.

 

* * *

 

The funeral had taken place in London's main wizarding cemetery. Kingsley had been buried right next to his parents and grandparents and the amount of people attending had far exceeded anyone's expectations. He'd been well liked.

Not amongst the Wizengamot, but amongst those who'd fought Voldemort, who had resisted the status quo of pureblood supremacy.

Harry should have been there. He should have gotten the chance to say goodbye to a man he'd respected and had trusted more than even Dumbledore in those last years of hell.

But now Harry was a fugitive, with the real culprit running around and making people believe differently, making people question Harry.

Hermione and Ron were covering for him, lying for him already, getting in danger. And the entire DA had all but declared their support, going so far as to talk to their families and friends and neighbors to convince them what really happened.

The Aurors had shown up, anyway.

Kreacher, of course, had orders to seal down the house, in case some uninvited guests decided to snoop around. And once Harry came back, with the perpetrator in his captivity, he'd face the law enforcement and _fix this_.

Harry hadn't really prepared himself for this situation and for his possible capture, but there was nothing to it. He'd have to do everything the hard way.

Infiltrating the ministry once again didn't sound like a good plan, especially if you didn't want to appear guilty. But none of that mattered anymore, since Baine had taken over two weeks ago.

Ministers have been assassinated before and it was always followed by a brief period of unrest and insecurity, before someone's filthy hands made a grab for power. Only then, the real changes began.

By now, Harry could tell where this was going. But he had sworn that he would do something; and making sure that the corrupt couldn't control wizarding Britain again was exactly what Harry would do, if only to honor Kingsley.

And to protect his friends.

Harry could handle people doubting him, hating him for now. What he couldn't deal with was the adoration.

Walking inside, Harry's cloak flapped around his legs.

The Atrium was practically deserted, but even hidden underneath his invisibility cloak, Harry still pressed himself closer to the walls. Getting caught was not an option.

The Interim Minister's office was on level two, in the heart of the DMLE and it would be extremely difficult to break into it. Harry would try anyway. It was funny, though. Baine had refused to move to Kingsley's office, keeping up the appearance of a man who was still mourning.

Thanks to Ron, Harry had gotten the information that the old man was in a meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister and would be gone for a while. And that's why he could take the lift now, could leave the corridors, could even walk around, invisible, with dozens of Aurors patrolling this area.

It was easy. Too easy.

The sleeping spell he'd cast on the guards just outside the door knocked them out for a good few minutes. They would look awake to anyone passing by, but minimal risks included one of the other Aurors discovering what Harry had done.

No turning back now. The door clicked open and Harry entered the small office, his eyes searching out for anything that would be out of place here.

He had met the man. In fact, Kingsley himself had introduced Harry to Baine, years ago. And while it had been undeniable to see the friendship holding both the Minister and his Undersecretary together, Harry had instantly gotten the feeling that something was terribly off.

Titonius had never liked him much. That was clear.

Sure, he didn't outwardly say anything bad about Harry or even to him. Still, Harry's instincts rarely led him astray. Especially when it came to people he was meeting for the first time.

Harry began to cast, spell after spell leaving his wand to check the door, the windows, the desk, even the chairs and floor. Nothing.

Shit, he'd have to hurry. Perhaps he should have checked Larke's place first.

It took a few more minutes, before Harry's eyes caught the distorted air hovering by the bookcase, revealing a powerful ward that would take even longer to dismantle.

“Hm, let's see about that,” he murmured, reaching for his magic. It crashed against the area, lightning up the books and the wooden shelves and Harry focused. Searching for the knot, the weak spot, the thread holding the ward together.

Not for the first time, Harry was relieved to have studied so much warding. It came in handy, when he wanted to investigate someone.

Finally, the ward bowed under the pressure and the bookcase dissolved, revealing another door.

Perfect. So Baine had something to hide.

Most politicians did, but then most politicians didn't keep anything of value inside their offices, unless the office had been tampered with. And few people possessed the skill to do so inside the Ministry of Magic, with its powerful magic altering the authorities in most cases.

Stepping through, Harry kept his wand up, curling his left hand around the hem of his cloak.

Other than the disturbing amount of clocks, though, Harry could only see a Pensieve standing innocently by the desk, its shape so familiar to another Pensieve Harry had been delving in repeatedly.

And now he felt bad for what he was about to do, since Harry had sworn never to enter someone's memories uninvited. Not after Snape.

Well, they'd messed up his life, so he could squash the feeling, for now.

Conjuring two vials, he swiftly walked over, snatching up the contents as quickly as possible. Perhaps Baine was innocent, to some degree. Perhaps his assistant was the bigger player in this game, but Harry would still find out as much as possible.

His hands shook slightly, as he pocketed the vials. Nervousness kept him alert to any noises, to anything that would reveal another trap he'd walked right in.

Nothing.

Sighing, he cast a few spells to search out for more evidence, but the office didn't give out any secrets and Harry didn't have the time anymore.

So he turned around. And could have fainted at the sight that greeted him.

Titonius was leaning casually against the door, his arms crossed as he smiled at Harry. His robes looked immaculate against the charmed light, but it didn't detract from the man's attitude.

His eyes were sharp, cold.

“When will you stop making such blatant mistakes, I wonder.” The man tsked.

Harry didn't want to take the bait, but his irritation was back full force. Every minute he spent inside the building though, was a minute closer to his capture.

“It's been you all along,” Harry said, looking at him. “You killed your friend. You pinned it down on me.”

Titonius didn't even bat an eyelash. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Harry. Perhaps you might want to visit St. Mungo's, to check what's wrong. Clearly, you're a bit unstable these days.”

“Stop lying!”

“I don't lie,” the man said, gliding forward, his steps light. “What I do want to know however, is why you're here. Surely your arrogance couldn't have been that great. For you to invade my office like that.”

He was mocking Harry, taunting him. “Or perhaps it's just your stupidity again. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Unimpressed, Harry adjusted his stance, ready to cast. “Let me guess. It's world domination, you want. Or maybe another pureblood uprising.” He smirked. “People like you, they're very unimaginative.”

“People like me, you say,” the man mused, eyeing Harry's wand. “There's so much you still have to learn, Potter. So much, since the world you see around you isn't as black and white as you want it to be.”

“Believe me, I'd know that better than you.”

And then Harry shouted. “ _Lumos Maxima_.”

Instantly, the blinding white light filled the office with its power, making Baine shield his eyes, even while he cast a spell to stop the Boy Who Lived.

Harry ran, keeping his cloak up, so as to avoid being hit directly. He smashed through the bookcase and the door leading outside, seeing dozens of Aurors already heading his way.

Brute force. That's what it would have to be. Dodging several curses, he slid forward, jumping as another spell aimed at his feet, the only part of his body still visible to everyone. Fuck.

Slamming his shoulder against a burly Auror, he crossed the corridor, desperate to reach the Atrium before the Ministry lockdown cut off any chances of escape.

People shouted, running after him, and Harry was thankful that no civilians were blocking the path. He could use dangerous spells without risking hitting innocent bystanders.

Instead of taking the lifts, Harry ran for the staircase, not stopping even for a second to look back.

“ _Bombarda_.”

It hit the ceiling and pieces of stone and marble rained down upon the Aurors, halting their movements.

Swallowing down his guilt, Harry took the stairs as fast as he could, eventually reaching the Atrium and instantly heading for one of the fireplaces.

No lockdown yet.

Before another Auror could hit Harry with a precise disarming spell, someone else grabbed his shoulder, pulling him forward and into the green flames.

He hadn't had the time to register what happened. But the only thing that mattered, as he was whisked away to Merlin knows were, was Tom's face.

Dark eyes burned.

 

* * *

 

Harry got to his feet, ignoring the other wizard as he took in his new surroundings, dismay and nervousness making him feel as if the world has permanently shifted.

That had been close.

And too easy, since Baine could have easily initiated the lockdown before Harry even reached the staircases. No, the new Minister had let him go on purpose.

And now Harry was here. With a man he'd hadn't expected to see again so soon. Riddle, still as insufferable as ever, was gazing at him, even while he cast spells to mask their presences here.

“I won't even ask,” the dark wizard said after a while, turning toward him.

“Good, because I'm really not in the mood for your nagging,” Harry replied, distracted. He looked around curiously, noticing what must be the furniture, covered by white sheets. Dust collected on every available surface and clearly Tom hadn't prepared to take him here in the first place.

But that led to so many different questions. And Harry didn't know where to start, the events of the previous weeks slowly but surely getting to him.

“Maybe you could tell me how you managed to find me in the first place,” he began, taking a chair and sneezing when he cast a spell to get rid of all the dust. Damn.

Tom smiled.

“With this, of course.” Holding up the necklace, he let Harry inspect it for a moment. “Or did you forget that it links us together rather intimately?”

Awkward phrasing, there. Tom's smile widened.

Harry looked down, cringing. “I hadn't had the time to research it, not with all of this-” he waved his hand, “going around.”

“Yes, Potter. Clearly you had other things on your mind,” the Dark Lord replied, taking a seat. “I can't leave you for five minutes without you making a spectacle out of yourself.”

“It wasn't me and you know it,” Harry shot back, frustrated.

“Anyone believing that you're a cold-blooded murderer obviously doesn't know what he's talking about,” Tom considered him from beneath lowered eyelashes. “But then, the wizarding world hasn't changed a bit since my time. People are still sheep.”

Harry wanted to deny it, to deny the harsh words, but the need to defend everyone must have disappeared along with Harry's innocence in the eyes of the public.

He didn't have the strength to care anymore.

“Where are we?” he asked instead.

“Scotland.” Tom pointed his wand at the long table, clearing it up before conjuring a tea set. “I've taken the liberty to bring you to one of my safe houses. One that is still intact.”

Frowning, Harry reached for the cup. “Why would you do that?”

He did trust Riddle not to poison him.

“Because you running around the ministry while half of London is searching for you is not the wisest choice to make.”

Harry scoffed at that. “Thanks to you, I already have the experience.”

He knew what it was like to have the entirety of Wizarding Britain on the lookout for him. This, all of this, was a piece of cake. Harry still had enough people that trusted him, that would help him.

Looking up, he caught Tom's frown. The man was troubled by something. But he kept staring at Harry in that way of his, in that way that made Harry feel weird all over. It was difficult to say what Riddle was thinking.

“What?” Harry asked.

But Tom only shook his head, lips thinning, before he averted his gaze.

“Get some rest. Then we'll talk.”

Tom stood, without having touched his tea and as he swept past him, walking down the hallway, Harry's shoulders slumped, tension draining away.

Nowadays, he wished he could be back with Kreacher, thinking about jobs and wallowing in things like his midlife crisis.

It was easier than dealing with Riddle.

He must have sat here alone for a long time, but eventually the night's sky alerted Harry to his own fatigue. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. But perhaps Riddle had prepared him a room or something.

So with that in mind, Harry searched the small house. It was surrounded by moors and thick trees and he couldn't sense a soul outside, which meant this was really some sort of hideout for Voldemort.

Harry had never considered that the man would have one, always thinking about Malfoy Manor or perhaps even Riddle manor as the prime bastions of evil.

It shouldn't have surprised him though.

Fortunately, his thoughts were interrupted. It took almost no time to find a single room containing a small bed, desk and chair to figure out it was his, the only room cleaned up, safe for Riddle's bedroom upstairs.

Harry stepped inside and closed the door, careful not to make any sounds.

It was late and the sensible thing to do would be to sleep, but Harry couldn't do that now. Rummaging in his robe's pocket, he took out his handbag, placing his invisibility cloak carefully beside it.

Tom had been right. They had research to do. And that's what Harry would try, before Tom got his hands on those books.

 

* * *

 

Tom couldn't sleep, as usual. Instead he was pressing his hands against the windowpanes, watching as the snowflakes drifted down outside and melted against it.

So many things had become clear, so many pieces of information falling together and creating a picture both thrilling to Tom and dangerous at the same time. Larke had been a wealth of information, a devoted witch who had broken under Tom's torture, spilling secrets that weren't meant to be shared with any outsiders.

She had died of the spell placed upon her by that new Minister. The only thing Tom had managed to do was to send the corpse back to its master.

Still, pictures formed in his mind, the memory of the impostor's death making something inside Tom twist unpleasantly. He had not enjoyed seeing Harry Potter's death, before the figure was transformed back to its original form. A Metamorphmagus.

He should have enjoyed it, though. Should have reveled in what would look like Potter's demise, once this whole thing was solved. Tom had not considered adjusting his plans, but now he needed to.

Harry...

The boy was incredibly powerful, agile in the way he dueled. Tom had observed it firsthand, back at the ministry, after the necklace led him to Potter.

Any delusions about an easy defeat of the Chosen One had been shattered back then. But those delusion were now replaced with feelings.

Feelings he didn't want to feel, didn't want to take into account, since they were decidedly more positive. He'd never felt anything quite like that towards an individual. The need to keep someone close. How pathetic.

And there were still so many secrets about Harry left to uncover, secrets that inadvertently drew him to the boy.

Pale hands pressed more firmly against the glass.

He needed to get rid of those feelings. Straightening, Tom stepped away from the window, turning around to leave his room and to wake a certain Boy Who Was Turning Everything Upside Down.

With every step he took, the need to be close to Potter, to observe him grew worse.

Standing outside the door, Tom smirked at the spells that had been cast to keep him out. Pity that this house only obeyed its master. Drawing his wand, he shattered the wards with ease and walked right in.

The bed hadn't been slept in. Dark eyes zeroed in on the hunched over figure sitting at the desk, his face pressed against an open book.

The boy had fallen asleep while researching.

Moving closer, Tom observed the relaxed lines of his shoulders, the wild hair. Potter was just ridiculous.

Stopping, he took a moment to inhale the unfamiliar scent. There was something incredibly masculine about Potter. The way he smelled, the way his arms moved, the way he walked with a steady, impressive confidence, even if the deck was stacked against him.

Calling him a boy wasn't accurate or even appropriate.

His hand reached out automatically, fingers sweeping aside the fringe to inspect the infamous scar. His mark.

Tom had expected to feel something, anything that traced the connection between Potter and his older self. But there was nothing. Nothing other than the necklace now tying the both of them together.

Suspicious. Potter was hiding something vital from him and he hadn't forgotten his own thoughts about that. His instincts kept telling him what it was, but...

Green eyes snapped open suddenly and the hand shot out, curling around his wrist with shocking strength.

Tom stared him down and felt the boy staring back at him fiercely, before his memories of the previous night came back. Reluctantly, the boy let go.

“How did you get inside?” Potter mumbled, straightening his glasses.

“It's my house,” Tom replied, turning around swiftly. “Follow me. We have a few things left to discuss.”

He didn't wait to see if the boy would obey.

Tom's wrist felt hot.


	8. Revelation

It was a battle of wills, but Harry was determined to win it. He wasn't the least bit ashamed of his rebellion, knowing that starting his research without Tom had irritated the older wizard.

Good. He lived to annoy him. Past, present or future.

Curling his hands around the hot porcelain, Harry took a sip of the coffee, not enjoying the stale breakfast Tom had somehow procured for them both.

Obviously, this house had no house-elves to take care of the necessities, since no one was supposed to know about it.

And Tom was no cook. That was clear. But from what Harry guessed, the man knew all about taking care of houses, cleaning and all that. The orphanage had taught Tom a lesson. A lesson Harry knew all too well from his own time with the Dursleys.

Life wasn't kind to them and both knew that survival meant more than waiting for others to do the dirty work. People like Malfoy had never understood it.

“Before we research the necklace, there are certain things you need to be made aware of,” the man began.

The orb was placed on the table between them, its shining surface drawing Harry's eyes to it.

"Why bring me here in the first place? Why aren't you just doing it all on your own?” Harry asked, wanting to know the man's motives. Tom could have taken the books and just ditched Harry at the first opportunity.

The man's expression remained blank. "It was for your own safety. Both of our safety, in fact."

Seeing Harry's doubt, Riddle elaborated. "My previous location was compromised and I didn't think you running around, investigating by yourself would make any of this easier for me."

'So it was self-serving', Harry thought darkly.

“Baine is behind it all, having brought me to this world while at the same time doing everything in his power to discredit you,” Tom continued, clasping his hands together.

Now they needed to figure out why? Harry could tell that Tom knew more than he let on.

"How did you know it was me then?" he asked, hoping for the truth. “You said the necklace found me, but I could have been the impostor."

Could the necklace sense that Harry was a former Horcrux? Could Tom know?

"Your eyes,"

Looking up again, Harry stared at him in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

Tom's lips twitched, and he was visibly holding himself back.

Harry had seen the man lose his composure, but that was nothing compared to what most people did when cornered. Tom Riddle took acting to a whole other level, usually keeping everything hidden. Around Harry, those acts seemed to crack.

"It was your eyes. They look-"

"Like my mother's eyes. I know,” Harry replied automatically. But that still didn't explain how Tom could tell.

"No,” Tom frowned at him, confused.

“I was about to say they look _alive_ ,” the wizard explained, unashamed. It startled Harry so much that his own composure left him.

Alive?

No one had ever told him anything like this. Certainly not about his eyes. It was always Harry Potter, looking so much like his father. Or acting so much like his mother, having her eyes. Even Dumbledore had used that against Snape.

But never this. People usually searched for others, kept thinking about other people when looking at him. Tom didn't.

It floored Harry completely and even Tom took amusement in seeing Harry's surprise, although he still seemed confused.

"Your impostor wasn't nearly as good trying to mimic you as he should have been. I'm surprised that some people even doubted you."

True. Harry himself had been unhappy to see Aurors like Robards following Baine's every command now.

He scrunched up his face, ignoring his heart which seemed determined to beat out of Harry's chest, the more Riddle kept looking at him like this. Seeing only him. No one else.

"It's not like I can do anything about that anymore. My impersonator is still walking around free, causing trouble."

“No, not anymore,” Tom replied swiftly. “It's another reason why I had no trouble finding you. The boy is already dead.”

Okay, Harry hadn't known that, but how did Riddle-

“You found the assistant. You found Larke, didn't you?” Harry asked, troubled. The things he must have done to her.

Riddle's expression confirmed it.

“You tortured her for information.”

The dark wizard nodded, pleased. "And several others. They had interesting things to say once I lifted what spells the Minister put on them."

Harry felt disgusted, but even more so at Baine's actions. To force people into doing these things, it was worse than Voldemort simply bullying people into doing what he wanted. The Death Eaters had always had the chance to defect, to flee.

“So who was it then? My impostor,” Harry asked tentatively. The person must have taken Polyjuice or something.

Riddle made a dismissive gesture. “No one important. Just a Mudblood, although ironically enough, the boy possessed Metamorphmagus abilities.”

Harry frowned at him, irritated but not surprised by Tom's use of that slur. “So he didn't use any potions for that?”

“Remember the attack?” Something in Riddle's expression seemed reluctant at the mention of that day. Angry but hesitant. “And how one of the attackers had taken a sample of your hair, before disappearing?”

Now that Harry did, it was true. Someone had done that, but if the impostor simply used his powers, then it must have been a diversion of some sorts. To make them think about Polyjuice, to distract them from the truth.

“I'm still surprised Baine wouldn't keep a better watch on his people,” Harry said dryly. The man had been toying with him at the ministry. It must have been ridiculously easy for Tom to get that much information.

Tom took a sip of his tea, before setting his cup down. “He's growing overconfident. It's also why he basically let you go.”

Huffing, Harry lowered his head, trying to think it all over.

"Be that as it may,” Tom continued. “Baine is indeed responsible for my untimely appearance here. And he's also responsible for framing you."

“So now we need to find out what he wants. And why he did it,” Harry murmured. The necklace was still lying between them, gleaming innocently.

_The Soul._

Could he tell Riddle about the Horcrux connection?

"Yes, your little break in yielded results, didn't it?" Riddle kept staring at him."How unusual for you."

Harry had two memories still stored away in his bag and Riddle must have started to search through it, for him to know that.

“I must say, Harry. You collect very interesting items on your journey,” Tom said, having sensed Harry's thoughts. “That invisibility cloak of yours. It's very powerful. Unusually so.”

Tensing, Harry watched Riddle closely. “If you have taken it-”

But the wizard only laughed briefly, holding up his hands.” Relax. I have no need to steal your things.”

Right. Harry didn't believe him for a second. Tom Riddle was a thief extraordinaire.

“Have you considered becoming a collector of artifacts?” Tom asked, amused. “The job would suit you well, what with your handbags, books, necklaces and cloaks.”

“Like Hepzibah Smith, you mean?” Harry shot back, grinning as Tom's mask slipped again. “Maybe I should just give them to you then. Simper at the sight of you when you ask for them.”

“Maybe you should.”

Something changed in the air between them, something shifted. Harry's smile fell and he could feel himself tensing up again, could feel his heart rate increase.

“Only if you give me flowers,” Harry replied, his own words startling him.

Riddle's lips parted.

What were they doing?

Why did he just say that?

"Well, what did you find out?” Harry coughed, breaking the awkwardness. “You said it was important."

"It is." Tom still considered him, but thankfully he let it go. "Next time investigate the people who control the government. Don't let them get away with everything."

Harry rolled his eyes, squashing down his embarrassing thoughts. "Easy for you to say."

"He's a Seer," Tom said. “Baine is a Seer.”

It took time to process the words and when Harry did, the revelation wasn't surprising. It oddly seemed to fit.

Seers were notorious for many things, according to the books he'd read. But they could also develop a one-track mind if they saw something to their liking. Harry knew all that, and corrupted Seers have always posed a threat to other people in the past.

"Baine saw something and because he needed it to become true-," he said.

"He first needed to make sure that the necessary conditions were set up beforehand,” Tom finished for him, nodding.

Harry took a deep breath. "Like you. Your existence here. You needed to be here, so that I could…do what exactly?"

"Get distracted.” Tom ran a hand through his hair, making sure it was parted neatly. “Make certain choices you wouldn't do if I wasn't here. All of it needed to happen in order for his vision to become true."

"So now we only need to find out what he saw,” said Harry. What he wants to happen in the end."

"That's where you come in," Tom picked up his wand and summoned Harry's handbag from his room with a flick.

"Right,” Harry nodded, not happy as he watched his stuff appear in Riddle's hand. “I've managed to steal a couple of memories, but I doubt he kept anything compromising in his office. It was heavily warded, though."

"We'll need a Pensieve,” Tom said. "My future self might have one, but for that we would need to visit Little Hangleton."

Great. More sneaking around and following Tom's guidance. Merlin, Harry wished they could return to Grimmauld Place.

"There's something else,” he began slowly, making sure that Tom wasn't taking anything out of the bag that wasn't books on time travel. “If Seers can See certain events, then it means he must have obtained the necklace for that purpose only. Or he might have created it."

“No, I don't think he created it. But he must have tampered with it,” Tom said, pointing at the engraving on the necklace. “The _Soul_. It's been added recently. Whatever he knew, he must have known that this word would activate the orb.”

Baine knew about Horcruxes?

"Potter."

Harry panicked, but this time Tom's stare was unforgiving. He wanted answers. And he would force them out of Harry, if he refused.

“I can't tell you,” Harry said quickly. “Not yet. Not when we don't know how this orb works.” He needed a distraction.

Frustrated, Tom handed over one of the books to Harry, but he remained silent. Patient.

Why?

Together, they focused on their research. If Harry felt those eyes on him from time to time, he tried to ignore it.

 

* * *

 

It took hours to pour over the relevant texts to confirm Tom's suspicion that the word must have been engraved at a later stage. Words often added power to ancient enchantments.

These necklaces, having been created centuries ago, worked like time turners, but the Unspeakable had been right. They only worked when a powerful connection between the timelines was established in the first place. And that almost never happened.

Not unless soul magic became an issue.

Baine must have Seen so much, to even attempt to mess with Abraxas Malfoy's memories in order to ensure that the pureblood wouldn't remember knowing all this.

Baine had also given Tom that necklace in the past or must have set up a situation in which Tom would receive it.

So what had he Seen then? And how did he manage to travel through time to give it to Tom? Had he used the necklace himself to establish some sort of link with Tom's past? Or had he done it in his own youth. The man was old, after all.

Harry stared at the ceiling of his room, thinking about all the Seers that must know about him being a former Horcrux.

It was harder even to stay around Tom with that knowledge in mind. The wizard would keep watching his every move, would sometimes brush up against Harry, making the younger wizard feel completely out of sorts.

There was no inherent magic linking them together anymore. Nothing that allowed Harry to see inside Tom's mind and vice versa.

But he still felt it. The tension. The looks.

His own confusion.

Harry couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand sitting here and not being able to do anything about it all. The effect Tom Riddle had on him kept him up at night.

Fingers trembling, Harry reached out, touching his scar, feeling nothing. And yet feeling the ghost of Tom's fingertips tracing it.

Why had the man done that?

Pushing himself up, Harry propped his arms up on his knees, frustration gnawing at him like some sort of beast.

He couldn't stand waiting any longer. His friends were out there and Baine was already messing up the ministry and all Harry could think about was the way Tom's touch felt like.

It made him feel sick. With something that was probably want. But shouldn't be.

Clearing his throat, Harry decided to talk to the man. To talk about everything, to get it all out, just that he could have some sort of peace back. This awkwardness between them, this constant fire needed to be doused. They weren't friends. They weren't even allies really. It was all a temporary situation that would change once Tom insisted on staying in this world.

They needed to talk about this, too.

If only for his own peace of mind.

Harry stood, brushing a hand through his hair, his other hand curling around the necklace. He left his room, determined steps taking him upstairs to Tom's place.

The wizard often liked to retreat, enjoying his sanctuary while he did his research. It was something Harry could understand, but that didn't mean he appreciated it. They were in this together and should swap their ideas and back and forth, not doing it all separately.

Knocking softly, he entered the man's room for the first time, hearing the door click shut behind him.

It was rather warm inside, warmer than it should be.

Tom was sitting on his bed, arms resting on his legs. He was staring again, his eyes darker than ever before, his hair not as neatly arranged as usual.

All thoughts flew out of Harry's mind, making him freeze in place.

Silence settled between them, ruthlessly exposing what Harry felt in that moment. He desperately tried to blank his face, to make himself look at ease. It was terrible.

"Why did you do it?"

The question came out of nowhere.

"Do what?" Harry whispered.

The man's eyes never left him.

"Pushed me aside.” Tom breathed. “The killing curse almost touched you and I could have deflected it. So why did you do it?"

That's what Tom had been thinking about this entire time?

Harry had almost completely forgotten the events at the Conservatorium, especially his actions. What should he tell him?

"Do you want to hear anything specific?” Harry stalled. “Because if that's the case, I can't help you there."

"So you'd do it for anyone then,” Tom said, rising to his feet. “You'd throw yourself into the path of a killing curse for every single person out there? You value your own life that little."

"Maybe. I don't know.” Harry felt his own hands shake. “Guess you really aren't that special.” He smiled, twisted. “That's what you want to know, right? That you got to me. That I started to care about you.”

"Would it be so devastating?" The question was laced with something innocent, but dangerous altogether.

Walking forward, Harry closed the distance between them, suddenly angry. At Tom, at everything. Being stuck here, waiting.

"You don't get it, do you? Even now you're only asking me this to see if you can use it against me. That's all you ever do."

"I'm not him."

Harry laughed, the sound unknown to his own ears. Tom's passion right now, his need to know everything. It was like staring at Voldemort.

"No, but you're on your way to becoming him, with or without Horcruxes,” Harry replied, enjoying Tom's sharp look. Riddle's eyes flashed dangerously. Harry could almost see the crimson bleeding through. Could imagine that handsome face morph into a familiar snake-like visage.

“I only see someone who's waiting for the right moment to strike,” Harry continued. “Me caring about you, that's exactly the kind of thing you'd like, because it would make it easier to stab me in the back.”

 _I don't want to be saved by you_ , Tom had said back then.

Harry took a breath, green eyes narrowed. “I can't care about you. Not in the way I want to."

_It'd kill me._

He had said too much. Harry was lying to himself. Lying to both of them. When had everything gotten so out of control?

When he first saved Tom? When he saw him at the graveyard the first time?

When Tom came back for him? Voldemort would have never done it.

"I tire of your assumptions, Harry Potter." The words were harsh, the anger palpable. Tom took a step closer, determined.

"Then do it. Prove that you're not him."

_Make me care. Because I want to._

Harry turned towards the window, brushing past the man in order to calm down. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he let the coolness soothe his raging thoughts. Merlin. This was intense.

Harry needed to leave. Now that his impostor was dead, he could prove his innocence. Anything to stop thinking about the man standing behind him.

A hand reached out, brushing against his neck. "I know what you fear the most now, Harry. Why you chose to stay away from all of this, from the world for so long. Why you couldn't imagine working for the Aurors and surpassing them."

The hand trailed lower. Harry stilled completely, beyond shocked. The necklace slipped from his hand, falling down.

And fuck. Fucking hell. What was happening here? This was not what he'd come here for, Harry thought, panic seizing his heart.

"You fear being a leader,” Tom murmured, the heat of his body pressing up against Harry's back. “You fear being you. Why?”

Tom unravelled him with only a few words, making Harry tremble all over. Making him confess.

"Because I never want to see it again,” he said. Eyes looked outside the window, seeing only a snow-covered ground, and his tired reflection. “I never want to see people looking at me like they would gladly die for me. On my word."

Tom hummed.

"You can't control that." Lips brushed against his skin, puffs of air making the hairs at the back of his head flutter.

"I can and I will."

Strong arms encircled Harry. "Even an unwilling leader can inspire dozens of people to die for him. It's why Baine sees you as a threat. I would too, in his position.”

Tom didn't see him as a threat? Then what was all of this? What was he doing?

Harry cursed, turning forcefully and pushing Tom's arms away, only to draw the man closer again.

"I can't forget it,” Harry said, furious, the confession blinding him to everything else. “Can't get you out of my head. You and him. It never mattered, because I couldn't go two days without thinking about you,” Harry snarled, watching as those alluring eyes widened.

“Whether it's good or bad. Half of my life I wondered what he would want to do, what his thoughts were. Everything. It _never_ stopped.” Harry couldn't see anything, only his own fear. “And then you died.”

He laughed again, brokenly, thinking of the betrayal he was committing. Betrayal of his parents, of Dumbledore. Of all the people who died because of Voldemort.

The want never left him.

“Leading people, it reminds me of a time when leading meant facing you. Getting caught up in your thoughts and losing myself in you. And with you coming back, it just became even more messed up."

Tom pushed him against the window, the force of it knocking Harry's breath away.

“You are my Horcrux,” Tom whispered against his lips.

“Was,” Harry confirmed, defeated. It was done. All of it. He couldn't deny it anymore. Couldn't deny that Tom had been his purpose all along.

"Good."

Their mouths brushed, once, twice. Unsure, so very sure.

Tom kissed him then, curling his hands arounds Harry's wrists and pushing his arms up, until Harry was pinned against the window. The anger between them, it was channelled into something else.

“I'm not-” Harry gasped, licking his lips when Tom paused, inhaling sharply. “I'm not yours anymore. I'm not an object.”

The hands on him tightened possessively and Tom's eyes looked hungry, ravenous for more.

“If you were an object, Harry, I would use you for my own pleasure,” he breathed. “And then I would put you away, like a meaningless trinket. That's all you would be. Something to be looked at. Pretty, but essentially dead.”

“Tom-” Harry's mouth searched Tom's, lips connecting briefly. He did want this. All of it. That's what they had been circling around this entire time. And Harry had only come to this conclusion _now_.

“I don't just want to fuck you.” Tom's words ignited something inside Harry. “I don't want to possess you.”

_I already do._

“Then what do you want?” Harry whispered, letting Tom push him away from the window, push him until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Tom's bed.

“Us. You and me.”

_For you to be mine and for me to be yours._

 

* * *

 

Harry Potter was spread out on the bedsheets like an offering, his beautiful eyes squeezed shut, as if he could still deny the reality of it all.

Tom traced the vision with his eyes, memorizing Harry greedily, seeing it all unravel before him. Want was a familiar emotion to him.

He coveted many things. Immortality above all. And trinkets, objects of value, objects that other people possessed. Legendary objects. Powerful tools.

Wanting a person was new, but not that different, when seeing what or who it was he wanted. Potter embodied many things that Tom had desired in his life. The bespectacled youth had defeated death. He was, contrary to the boy's words, an object of value. Not only to Tom. But to the entire wizarding world.

He was a legend. Someone you told stories about.

Tom reached out, careful fingers running down Harry's arm, teasing at the hem of his robe until their fingers entwined.

“What are you doing to me?” Harry breathed, arching up against him. He was still clothed, but Tom would swear that this was the most erotic sight he'd ever laid eyes on.

“What does it look like?” Tom teased, nipping at his ear. Sex was something he'd only ever read about, not in the least bit interested to engage in the act with anyone, woman or man.

Humans were still utterly worthless.

But Harry shined, breaking past the sludge of uselessness in this world and drawing Tom's eyes to him without mercy. And that's all that mattered.

Tom should feel shame, should feel disgusted at his own weakness. But something told him that keeping Harry close, keeping close to Harry would make _him stronger_.

Desire was not a weakness, if the target was the right one to direct it at.

“You told me you didn't want to fuck me,” Harry said, tugging at Tom's shirt.

The older wizard bent down, letting Harry's fingers skim his throat. “No, Harry. I told you I didn't simply want to fuck you. There's a difference.”

“So it's what?” Harry inched closer, his lips wet, eyes wide again. “Making love?”

Love?

Tom stilled, never having considered _that_. Love was a weakness. Love was what held people back. Mesmerized, he began to thread his fingers through Harry's hair.

He didn't love.

Was that love then?

Wanting someone so much that the thought of not having this boy in his arms was unthinkable. Having his mind invaded by green eyes and that cocky smile every single day without rest. Seeing that person duel like someone who was destined for it and wanting all of it for himself.

His Horcrux. His murderer.

Harry looked at him then, knowingly. But there was no pity in his gaze.

Carefully, he settled down on him, feeling Harry's hardness press up against his own. Harry's eyes fell shut and Tom hissed, enjoying this more than he'd thought possible.

There were too many clothes between them.

What did it matter what it was? Love, desire. Need. Meaningless labels in light of the very hold they had on each other.

Tom doubted anyone in this world could replicate what existed between them. And for a moment he thanked that overconfident Seer for bringing him into this world.

He would _never_ leave it again. Not if it meant returning to that bleak, grey nothing that existed in the past and would inevitably lead Tom to a future where he could do nothing but keep his distance from a different Harry Potter. One who would probably never face the same Voldemort again.

He would figure out how to become immortal once again while keeping the person who made death bow to him by his side.

Heart thudding, Tom was grinding down against Harry, tugging at black locks.

“It's not making love,” the dark wizard hissed, before his lips met Harry's again.

The kiss turned forceful and Harry's tongue traced the roof of his mouth, circling around his own, tasting, touching, playful. He moaned into the kiss. Didn't want to hold back. Couldn't get enough of those lips.

They parted, out of breath again.

“It's becoming one.”

And that was all it took for Harry to flip them over, their positions now reversed. Tom was panting beneath him, eagerly taking in the sight, as Harry swiftly tugged on his robe, taking it off with tantalizing movements.

A white shirt was revealed, and the sight of those collarbones made something inside Tom want to bury himself in the boy.

Harry was flushed, his breath quickening as he fumbled with his shirt. “I can't believe you,” he whispered, glasses askew. “ Can't believe you would do this. That I would do this.”

Lowering his head, he finally took it off.

“That you would do this to me,” Harry breathed, desperate. The shirt came off, revealing tanned skin, a smooth, defined chest, dark nipples.

Tom's pulse quickened impossibly. “When did this happen?” he asked, pointing at the circular scar near Harry's throat. The Chosen One had a few scars marring his skin, indicating how much he had already endured in his short life.

It made him ridiculously attractive, Tom thought.

Potter's gaze lowered then, but there was something intense in the way he looked.

“You,” he replied gently. “Or your locket Horcrux.” Placing a hand over Tom's, he moved it, letting the Dark Lord touch him, touch the evidence of Harry's pain.

Tom did so, not hesitating as warm fingers caressed the skin, not even stopping in his search for more. More heat. More skin. More Harry.

For a moment, he felt something akin to jealousy, seeing the evidence of Voldemort's marks on Harry. He'd have to find a way to erase those traces, to replace them with his own.

And that's what he did. Pulling himself up on his elbows, he reached out, curling his arm around Harry's back and tugging him closer.

Tom latched onto Harry's neck, kissing it, sucking at the tender skin. Needing more.

Harry moaned, moving against him, their hard members pressing even closer. He wanted to pull down his trousers, but Tom didn't let him, murmuring a wandless spell instead that finally, finally allowed them to see each other without any barriers.

The humid air touched their bodies, and both of them felt the heat rising. Harry stared at him then, as Tom's lips left. And Tom could see it at once. Could see Harry's own need to take Tom. To merge with him. To empty himself inside him.

Tom smiled. They had all night to do this.

 

* * *

 

Hysterically, the first thought that crossed Harry's mind upon seeing Tom Riddle naked was this. Voldemort was an idiot.

How could he have given up this beauty to turn himself into such a monster? Tom was gazing up at him, not in the slightest ashamed of his own state.

Harry never imagined anything like this happening, not with everything that was going around. And he still wanted to taste Tom, needing to possess all of him, mark him. His sharp cheekbones, his flushed skin, his dark locks, his full lips.

Merlin, he'd never seen anyone this stunning in his life.

Fuck, he was definitely lost.

Lowering himself further, Harry's lips trailed a hot path alongside Tom's hipbones, bypassing his member to lick at the exposed skin.

“Yes,” Tom hissed, pulling at his hair, pushing him closer. “Yes, Harry.”

Harry hummed, feeling Tom's cock brush his cheeks, his jaw. Not yet.

Not yet.

Lapping at more skin, Harry let Tom's unique scent invade him, the warmth almost making him lose his mind. He was really doing this.

“Harry,” Tom warned, impatient.

He let his instincts lead him further, mouth going even lower until finally, finally he sucked at Tom's balls, making the man cry out.

The sounds Tom made were unbelievably hot. Harry's glasses had been lost and he could barely see anything, but the state of Tom's arousal heightened Harry's confidence.

He didn't need to see. He only needed to feel.

He sucked harder.

“Fuck,” Tom murmured, the profanity so at odds with his usual suave persona. Harry _loved_ every second of it. “If you keep this up, I will come,” the man promised hotly. “I will come all over your face.”

Harry smirked, fingers going lower until they found the crease between the man's legs, one finger pressing up against Tom's opening.

Riddle exhaled, pupils completely dilated. Harry slid a hand down, holding Tom's leg up and adjusting their positions until he could reach that intimate place. Could fuck it, using his tongue.

“Then come,” Harry breathed, lapping against the hot skin. “Come all over me.”

_Make me yours._

He breached him.

Tom hardened even more and the words that spilled out of his mouth were barely coherent. Harry licked, going deeper, barely recognizing himself as he did so. He'd _never_ been that forward with anyone.

Faster.

“Yes,” Tom repeated. “Yes, yes.” The experience was unique to Harry, having never done it with a man before, but even he could tell he'd want this again, if only to hear those sounds Tom made.

Harry was holding himself back, his own erection throbbing painfully. But he could wait.

He sucked and kissed.

And pulled back, just as he felt Tom shift beneath him, stiffening. Tom cried out again, Harry's name falling from his lips, as come splattered between them, landing on Harry's cheeks and chin.

Harry should feel shame, but instead he wanted _more_.

“So good,” Tom murmured, his own arms drawing Harry up to him again as he breathed harshly. And Harry stared at him wide-eyed, having never seen someone lose himself so much. And Harry had caused it.

Reaching out, Tom wiped away his own come on Harry's chin, smirking.

“Lick,” he said simply, pressing the pads of his fingertips against Harry's mouth. Merlin, he was commanding, even in bed.

Narrowing his eyes, Harry did so. He'd just made Tom come, using only his mouth. But the thing about control was that it simply didn't matter. Not between them.

He sucked and curled his tongue around the digits, licking, tasting Tom and knowing that all of this was just turning the man on again.

Riddle looked impossibly pleased, but beneath that exterior, there was a sense of vulnerability, a revelation, something that Tom must have come to understand. He was oddly silent.

Licking those long fingers clean, Harry opened his mouth again, but caught Tom's hand, holding it to his cheek. Green eyes stared at him, soft.

“I don't want this to be about submission or dominance,” he said, needing to get this out, wanting Tom to understand. “I don't want you to feel as if you have something to prove here. Neither do I. It's never been that simple.”

“Between you and Voldemort, you mean.” Tom moved forward until their foreheads were pressed together, the act somehow more intimate than everything Harry had done just now.

“Yes, but that's all he did. He wanted to prove that he was in control the entire time. That I was inferior to him.” Harry grimaced, hiding his face. “It wasn't sexual, but-”

“It might as well have been,” Tom finished, stroking his hair. Harry frowned, not really pleased with that statement.

“It's the truth, you know,” the wizard said, tilting his head until they could face each other again. From this close, Harry could see the man's drawn expression.

“I've seen memories of him.” The back of Tom's hand caressed Harry's throat, no doubt feeling his pulse speed up. “I've seen the way he talked about you. The way he kept thinking about you. Had it been a different prophecy or a different outcome, he would have _never_ let you go.”

Harry froze, his own arousal forgotten.

“Because I was his Horcrux.”

Voldemort taking him away from everything? Harry had been playing around with that idea during his worst moments, the _what if_ lingering in the privacy of his head.

“Because you were my downfall.”

Tom's words shattered something inside him.

It was always more than that between them. They didn't need any soul link, or blood protection to tie them together.

Harry slumped against him, before rolling away. But Tom didn't let him go. Instead he captured his wrists, pushing his arms up until Harry was once again completely exposed to Tom's gaze.

“You and me, it will never be as simple as fate makes us believe. I've come to that conclusion the moment you defied me the first time, when I had you at my mercy,” Tom began, utterly serious. “Why he chose to believe in that prophecy so fiercely, I will never understand.”

Staring up at him, Harry's lips twisted and Tom lowered himself onto him again.

“It'll never be about control. Because that's not what happens between two people who are one.”

And then Harry hissed out when Tom's other hand began to trail lower, reaching for his cock, caressing it to hardness.

“T-Tom,” he stuttered, but Tom only cast something, the spell unknown to Harry until he felt Tom's wet, slick fingers going even lower.

“I want to look at you when I take you, Harry.” His hair curled, falling into his eyes and making Harry gasp at the sight of it.

How could someone be so...

Tom began to stretch him.

It was evident that he'd never really done this before, but it's not like Harry could really draw from experience. Harry winced, but Tom only whispered something.

“Relax,” he hissed, going slower. Reeling, Harry stifled another moan.

“Don't hide away from me,” the older wizard said, preparing him as carefully as he could. It might as well have been hours, Harry thought madly. Hours before he felt himself loosening up, drenched in his own desire for Tom.

And feeling Tom's desire for him.

Tom had been right. They didn't need magic or anything to make the choice to stay together, to work together. To sleep with each other.

Harry smiled up at him then, barely conscious of what he was doing. And Tom froze, something inside him breaking as he noticed Harry's smile.

Pulling his legs up roughly, Tom lost it completely.

He breached him and Harry couldn't help but moan, feeling the man enter him, going as slow as possible. To think that the Dark Lord would want to take care of Harry like this, to make sure that he didn't feel pain...

He felt it still, but it was accompanied by the passion with which Tom regarded him, as if he'd never seen Harry before. And was now seeing him in a different light.

Harry didn't understand what had changed between them, but he welcomed it.

His eyes became hooded. His shame and guilt for even doing this with Tom Riddle long gone.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Please.”

Tom's fingers embedded in Harry's hips and he let the young wizard adjust, before starting to move. And when he did, Harry's mind went numb with pleasure; feeling only the heat, hearing only the sound of skin slapping against skin, noticing only the wetness between them.

Tom's hunger.

“Wanted to do this,” the wizard said, breathing heavily. He drove forward again and Harry could only hold on, his own hands on the man's shoulders. He wanted to kiss Tom again.

“Wanted to do this the first time I saw you in your bedroom, without a wand. So innocent.”

The confession brought the memory to the forefront and Harry felt it then. They'd been dancing around each other right from the start.

“So easy to kill,” Tom murmured, thrusting harder, hitting his prostate. “Couldn't decide what to do.”

Harry cried out again loudly, and Tom continued to fuck him relentlessly.

“I'm not easy to kill,” Harry growled, voice rough with desire. He could feel the tension building up inside him again, so close.

He needed to come now.

Tom grinned sharply, eyes wide with lust. “No, you're not. And that's a good thing.” He leaned even closer and Harry's legs slipped away from the man's shoulders, curling around his waist instead. Tom embraced him then, the act bringing them together in ways that went beyond sex.

Tom touched his cock again, thumbing the slit. And that sent them both over the edge.

Harry shuddered, his climax surprising them both, but he clenched around Tom and felt the man's come pooling inside him, marking him.

“Harry,” Tom murmured again, before kissing him deeply. And as the Boy Who Lived let himself be swept away by the sensations and Tom's relentless desire, riding out the high, he couldn't regret even a second of it.

It would be a long night, though. Harry knew Tom wouldn't be satisfied with two rounds and Harry himself still wanted to return the favor, to make Tom feel as he felt.

Eventually, they fell asleep, utterly spent and exhausted, never letting go of each other. And for once Harry smiled as his eyes drifted shut, feeling content with the world.

The next morning however brought with it the realization that they couldn't hide away. Even with all the research they had done on the necklace, Harry came to understand that Tom wouldn't leave this time again, if he didn't want to. He had no link to the past anymore, other than his Horcruxes.

And Harry hoped against all hope that Tom wouldn't make more in this time. That he would give up this needless quest for something that would now destroy them both. Because it would destroy Harry.

Staring at the sleeping form beside him, Harry didn't really know what to do. But what he did know was this. He would find a way to clear his name and to fix the ministry once and for all. No more hiding.

And more importantly, he would work with Tom Riddle. And he would teach him what it meant to love and be loved back.

It was their choice, after all, leading them to this. Wasn't it?

Blinking slowly against the morning light, Harry summoned his glasses. Tom shifted a bit, but he was still asleep and his peaceful expression made something inside Harry stir painfully.

He wondered then.

Would Tom Riddle have grown up to be a different person, if he had lived in a different environment?

He was a very domineering person, no doubt. And the cruel streak was an inherent part of him, but could the drive for perfection have gone in a different direction? A better and more focused one?

Rubbing his forehead, those questions only led to more complex ones and Harry had no time to speculate about something that wouldn't change now anyway.

Turning his head slowly, something caught at the edge of his vision, taking Harry's attention away from the elegant curve of Tom's back.

Confused, he felt it then. A spike of something, a sudden burst of magic that hadn't been there before. And it was coming from somewhere inside this room.

Maybe he should wake Tom. The energy felt incredibly familiar, as if a veil had been lifted at some stage only to reveal something that was now increasing...in power?

Staring, Harry noticed a darker spot right in front of them. It looked like, it looked...

Smoke?

He had no time to investigate, no time to even react properly, before the smoky substance started to morph into something, slowly but surely revealing a black robe.

Harry's heart stopped just then and his mouth opened, but the scream got stuck in his throat and his hands clenched helplessly around the bedsheets. But he couldn't move. He should move. He should get his wand.

Where was his wand?

Harry couldn't even think.

The black robe began to move and the burst of magic became so sharp that it made the air around Harry feel like ice that was now melting against his feverish skin.

Numb, he watched as a tall man materialized out of thin air, revealing long fingers, white skin and...

Harry wanted to wake up. Because none of this could be real. It was worse than any nightmares Harry had envisioned at the graveyard, when he first saw Tom.

A face turned toward him, serpentine features and cruel eyes. The man stepped out of the dark, elegant and casual in a way that reminded Harry of the person currently lying beside him.

Voldemort's crimson stare bore into him and a smirk slowly formed, as he stepped forward.

“Hello, _Harry_.”

That voice was the same.

The way he moved was the same. And Harry's mind went blank, the horror of it all not even registering properly.

Voldemort suddenly bent down, picking something up from the floor, before he straightened again. The necklace, which Harry had dropped at some point was held up for inspection and Voldemort hummed, before those eyes slid back to him.

Harry instantly wanted to wake Tom, wanted to confirm that all of this must be some sort of hallucination. But Voldemort only looked between them, before his smirk turned sharp.

“He won't wake,” the Dark Lord said casually, the necklace disappearing in his robe's pocket. “Not if I don't want him to.”

Harry had nothing to say to that. The urge to laugh hysterically grew, the longer he stared at the monster.

Voldemort tsked then, dissatisfaction evident, before his gaze turned cool and assessing again.

“Already found a replacement for me?” he asked, lowering himself and sitting down at the edge of the bed, crimson eyes on Harry's exposed chest.

“You're not real,” Harry murmured, flinching when a hand was suddenly placed on Harry's left leg, which was still covered by the sheets. Even through the material, Voldemort's hand felt cold, invasive.

“Does this feel unreal to you?”

Voldemort leaned forward.

“It's _so good_ to see you, Harry. And now, you and I need to have a little chat. Just between _old friends_ , hm?”

 

 

_TBC_


End file.
